


One Step Backward Taken

by cranperryjuice



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Robert Frost, Slow Burn, way too much gardening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-31 15:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranperryjuice/pseuds/cranperryjuice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The wind carries with it the smell of wet fabric and rotting flesh. Nowadays Rick can almost ignore it, along with the distant rattling of chain-link fences, if he leans close enough into his work that his eyes and nose fill with the bright greens and browns of young leaves and tilled earth.</i> (Set in the prison, after the season 3 finale.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The wind carries with it the smell of wet fabric and rotting flesh. Nowadays Rick can almost ignore it, along with the distant rattling of chain-link fences, if he leans close enough into his work that his eyes and nose fill with the bright greens and browns of young leaves and tilled earth.

The last few weeks were a blur – there'd been block D to clean up for the refugees, car engines to rig up for power, a horse enclosure and outdoor kitchen to build – but now the days have slowed to the repetitive crawl of farm work, and whenever Rick's focus slips from the crops in front of him, all he can think of are the disastrous results of his attempt at leadership: a dead wife, a son who guns down people in cold blood, and a daughter who most likely isn't even his.

When the sound of rustling grass draws him from his thoughts, he finds himself standing with his knuckles bright white around his shovel and no clear recollection of when he stopped digging. "Good morning, Rick," Hershel calls out as he hobbles closer. Rick raises a hand in greeting, dull pain shooting up his arm when he uncurls his fingers.

"I was looking through the library and I thought you could use these," Hershel says. He's holding two books – a thick leather-bound volume and a slimmer paperback – and holds out the latter to him first. _Leadership for Dummies_ , Rick thinks. _So Your Wife Got Eaten By Dead People_. He takes the book, hoping the humorless smile that surfaces on his face somehow manages to look like gratefulness.

 _The Georgia Fruit and Vegetable Book_ , the cover announces in large, colorful letters. "Oh, thanks," he says. His voice sounds low and hoarse, strange to his own ears. Come to think of it, he probably hasn't used it in a couple of days. "Should come in handy."

Hershel simply nods and hands him the second book. "Robert Frost?" Rick asks with raised eyebrows, having half-expected something religious.

"I think you'll like it."

Rick doesn't think of cracking open either book until he's standing in front of pristine plots of tilled soil, watching the lengthening mid-afternoon shadows and looking for some excuse to stay outside. He finally sits down in the grass and wipes his hands on his pants before picking up the poetry book and opening it to a random page.

_My Sorrow, when she's here with me,_  
_Thinks these dark days of autumn rain_  
_Are beautiful as days can be;_  
_She loves the bare, the withered tree;_  
_She walks the sodden pasture lane._

He slams the book shut again and closes his eyes, holding it tightly in one hand until the urge to fling it right over the fence passes.

***

He wakes up with a start, lying on his side among the crude wooden markers of their makeshift graveyard, and Lori isn't here. No matter how much he works, how much he tries to make his muscles ache more than his chest does before he falls asleep, he wakes up with his head full of Lori's absence.

He can't even tell whether it'd been better when he was still seeing her wandering the prison grounds as if she were still alive. At least then there'd been _something_ to fill the vast, gaping emptiness inside him.

Maybe this is what walkers feel like.

He sits up, slowly losing the resolve not to look back at the catwalk just in case she's there again, but notices instead the dancing light of a small campfire, a short distance away but still within the prison grounds. The moon is high in the sky and Rick can make out the pale wings on Daryl's vest and the bright green fletching of his arrows.

He stands up and walks toward the fire. It's Daryl's usual set-up – poncho spread out under him, crossbow by his side, water boiling in a pot, and three dead squirrels ready for butchering. He acknowledges Rick with a glance and a small nod, but says nothing.

"You're gonna attract walkers with that light."

"Let 'em come," he says darkly, pulling the skin off one of the squirrels. Then, looking up, "You gotta eat somethin'."

Rick got sick of squirrel meat roughly three weeks after meeting Daryl Dixon. He's locked his knees to keep from swaying, though, and his head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. Maybe he does need some food.

"Yeah, all right." He sits down and watches Daryl make short work of his kills. Once the squirrels are roasting, he wipes his hands on his bandanna, then pulls his bag closer to himself and starts rifling through it.

Rick's expecting anything except what Daryl actually pulls out of it. " _Tea_?"

"Mm." He tosses the small teabag in his hand, looking down at it, and shrugs. "Chamomile or somethin'." He produces a mug from his bag, dumps the teabag in, and pours some of his hot water into it. "Beth said it helps her sleep."

He does look tired, Rick thinks, with the low fire highlighting his hollow cheeks and the bags under his eyes. Everyone's been hard at work around the prison, and Michonne and Daryl have done more than their share of supply runs on top of everything else.

Daryl holds out the mug to him wordlessly. It takes a few seconds for Rick to react and take it. "Uh, thanks."

Daryl eyes him sideways as he turns the squirrels over, so Rick sips at the tea. It tastes like boiled grass. "... I was sleeping just now," he adds, feeling oddly defensive.

Daryl snorts and says no more until the meat is ready.

***

The squash vines are refusing to produce any fruit. Rick spends a good deal of his morning trying to tell the female and male flowers apart and rubbing them together, as the _Fruit and Vegetable Guide_ recommends. He feels ridiculous by the time he's done with the manual pollination attempt. After taking a good look at the still limp-looking plants, he heads off, shaking his head, to grab some fertilizer.

The bags are stacked behind Block A, well out of people's way and shielded from the sunlight. When he turns the corner, he's surprised to find Michonne and Carl sitting in the shade of the building. Michonne's sword lies in pieces on a small cloth in front of them, and Carl is staring at part of the hilt so intently that he doesn't even notice him.

Michonne, though, nods to him in greeting. "How you doin'?"

Carl blinks up at her before finally looking his way. "Hi," he offers, then focuses on the sword again. Rick crouches in front of them. Carl starts putting the sword back together, eyes narrowed in concentration. It doesn't look like it's his first time doing it.

"He's just learning how to clean it," Michonne says, placating Rick before he even opens his mouth. There's been no distracting Carl from weapons and supply runs, but he has to admit that this, at least, seems harmless enough. If she's telling the truth, anyway.

Carl has the sword back together in a couple of minutes, and Rick's impressed despite himself.

"Good," Michonne says, then elbows Carl, smiling. "Now you'd better get that blade shining before I come back."

He gets to work immediately, pouring what looks like some kind of oil onto a rag. Rick sits down to spare his knees and watches him polish the blade for a moment. "Where's she off to?" he asks, just to make conversation, once Michonne is out of earshot.

"Dunno. Lunch, I guess." He looks up briefly. "She's just teaching me stuff for fun."

"I know," Rick replies, then feels forced to add, "You did a good job putting it back together." Any other kid would've been happy to be praised by their dad; Carl eyes him with vague suspicion, as if Rick's going to forbid him from ever touching it again, then looks back down at the blade.

It's been like this even since Rick took away his gun. He doesn't know how to talk to Carl anymore, but he keeps trying. There's nothing else he can do. "Wanna help me with the fertilizer? I'll wait 'til you're done."

"Maybe later."

"Carl! There you are!"

Rick turns and sees Patrick shuffling over to them, bottles of water tucked under both arms, carrying a closed laptop topped with precariously-stacked Tupperware containers. "You hungry?" he asks, then shoots Rick a smile over the containers, obviously undeterred by Carl's unenthusiastic, mumbled reply. "Hi, Mister Grimes. We made rabbit stew. You can have mine."

Rick manages a smile and a shake of his head. "You go ahead," he says, and watches as Patrick carefully lowers everything to the ground. He's one of the only Woodbury refugees Rick knows by name – he's been hanging out with Carl in Block C a lot, seemingly trying his damnedest to keep Carl busy with normal kid stuff. Rick hasn't asked, but he's pretty sure Patrick lost both his parents to walkers somewhere along the line.

"This one has some pretty good games on it. You ever played Portal?" Patrick chatters on, flipping the laptop open with one hand and pushing one of the portions of stew toward Carl with the other.

To Rick's surprise, Carl actually sets the sword aside (after checking its shine) and reaches for the food. "No. What is it?"

Patrick launches into an enthusiastic explanation. The kid was probably happier about having his gadgets back than most refugees were about razors and hot water, Rick suspects. He just hopes the game's good enough to hold Carl's interest for a while, because Rick's attempts to wave him off to his cell to read comic books or play with Judith haven't been much of a success. He usually finds Carl wandering the grounds again within an hour or two, angry and restless.

It's become obvious that Carl's "maybe later" has turned into a definite "not today", so Rick stands up and grabs a bag of fertilizer, hoisting it over one shoulder.

"Bye, Mr. Grimes," Patrick eventually calls out through a mouthful of stew. Carl says nothing.

***

It takes a few days (or nights, rather, all of them spent pacing or staring at the unwelcome images on the inside of his eyelids) before Rick cracks open the poetry book again. He lights a fire in the pit Daryl left behind, lies down on his stomach, and flips to a random page, hoping to find respite from his own circling thoughts.

The words run into each other, though, slipping through his mind in an indistinct mass without taking hold. He scans the same line four times – _there amid lolling juniper reclined_ – without knowing what he's reading, then rolls onto his back, groaning, and presses his palms to his burning eyes.

He starts awake to sparks rising into the night sky above him. Daryl leans into his field of vision and glances down at him before tossing another piece of wood into the fire. "Sorry."

Rick rolls over onto the cool grass. Daryl's sitting with his bag and crossbow by his side. "'Time is it?"

"Dunno. Late. You hungry?"

Rick shakes his head, then licks his dry lips. There's a mug of something next to Daryl, so he stretches one arm out to take a sip. Black coffee – not really what he needs right now. Daryl seems to agree. He takes the mug from him and sets it down out of reach. "Go back to sleep."

Rick shifts closer to the fire again and rests his head on his crossed arms. He's not sure how long he dozes there, kept hovering just at the edge of consciousness by every pop of the fire and every move Daryl makes. The waking and sleeping blend together into a seamless whole, somehow more restful than any of his recent attempts at proper rest in a proper bed. Twice he's shaken awake, sweaty and disoriented, by Daryl's hand on his shoulder, but can't remember his dreams and sinks back into sleep almost instantly.

When he surfaces for good he's alone again, with the fire burnt down to embers and Daryl's poncho draped over him.

He sits up slowly, the heavy wool slipping into his lap, and looks around. No sign of Daryl, but he's left a wrinkled paper bag behind. There's something scrawled onto it in black marker, easily visible in the grey light of dawn.

_EAT  
DUMBASS_

He smiles and pulls the bag to himself. The first thing he finds inside is a small bag of potato chips, which he sets aside for later, then a granola bar. It's beyond stale, but the handful of berries at the bottom of the bag make it a decent enough breakfast.

***

Tiny seedlings are pushing their way out of the soil already. He's set Carl the task of thinning them, keeping only the strongest and spacing them out enough to maximize their eventual yield. Carl's yawning and poking at the soil listlessly more than he's doing anything useful, but the earthy handprints on his jeans and the small pile of discarded seedlings next to him are testament to the fact that he's trying, at least. Rick's hopes of making a farmer out of him were dashed pretty early on, but he prefers seeing Carl half-ass his way through gardening chores to watching him pace along the fences like a caged animal, looking for things to kill.

"Hey, farmer."

Rick looks up from his work just fast enough to catch the half-filled water bottle Daryl throws his way. He thanks him with a nod and takes a long gulp, then considers the rest of the water, the shining sun beating on the back of his neck, and finally dumps it over his head. The coolness chases away some of the sun-induced torpor that had been creeping into him – he tosses the bottle back in Daryl's direction, runs a hand through his dripping hair, and grabs his spade again.

He's not sure how much time has passed when a steady scraping noise filters through his concentration and makes him look up. Daryl is sitting in the exact same spot, chewing on a blade of grass as he sharpens his knife on a small, round stone.

"You gonna help?"

"Nope." He tests the blade with his thumb, spits onto the stone. Rick snorts to himself and turns back to his work for a second time, digging into the earth to the slow back-and-forth scrape of Daryl's knife.

"My knife's pretty dull," Carl says, and when Rick looks up again, he's already flopped down next to Daryl. One of the seedlings has been crushed into the soil, its bent stem and rumpled leaves framed by the outline of Carl's sneaker. Rick clenches his jaw and keeps working as the scraping sounds become hesitant and irregular.

"Angle's wrong."

"Show me." Several moments pass in near-silence. "How sharp can you get it?"

There's a different kind of scraping sound – that of a knife blade against stubble – and Carl laughs. "Cool. I bet Michonne can do that with her sword, too."

"Uh huh. Does her pits with it."

Carl laughs again, and that's twice more than Rick's heard him laugh since Lori died. "She said I can start practicing tomorrow."

"What?" Rick cuts in, head snapping up. " _No_."

There's a rebellious spark in Carl's eyes. "There's nothing else to do, okay? The kids from D are stupid," he adds, anticipating Rick's suggestion before it even makes it past his lips.

Daryl's eyes flick back and forth between them, and he derails the well-trodden argument by nudging Carl and tossing him the stone. "Try again."

***

Rick flips over for the hundredth time and punches uselessly at the two thin pillows stacked under his head. The blankets feel weird on his skin. Hell, sleeping barefoot with only his underwear and a t-shirt on feels weird. It's a luxury they all went without for months before finding the relative safety of the prison.

He listens for any movement from the other cells and hears nothing. The thick cement walls block out the sound of crickets, too, and the familiar, distant moans of stray walkers.

Rick sits up, then scrubs a hand over his face, hesitating. Daryl hasn't come inside for the night. Maybe he's waiting for him, kindling and squirrels at the ready. He can take a walk along the fence, check for walkers, and see if Daryl's somewhere on the grounds. There's no point in staying inside at night if he's not even going to sleep.

He finds his jeans, socks, and boots in the dark and gets dressed silently, then grabs a small flashlight and shines it into Carl's cell on his way out. He's asleep with one leg dangling off his bed and Judith's crib next to him on the floor. Rick moves on.

The heavy door of the cell block closes behind him and he breathes in deeply as he looks around. The smell of death is no stronger than usual, and there's no flickering light in their usual spot. He heads there anyway, shining his light at the growing seedlings poking through the soil as he walks past the garden.

The small fire pit lies cold and untouched, but Daryl's bag and crossbow are next to it. Rick looks around, frowning, and he's about to call out when he hears it. Daryl, crying.

Guided by the sound, it doesn't take long for Rick to spot him, sitting curled into himself near the grave markers. His back heaves as he sobs, and, uncharacteristically, he doesn't even hear Rick coming.

"Hey," he says in a low voice. Daryl whirls around, his eyes puffy and red, then turns away again and wipes his face. He shakes with the effort to stop crying, and Rick hesitates only a moment before lowering the flashlight and crouching down next to him, putting an arm over his shoulders. Daryl lets him, and that's almost more worrying that the crying.

"'M fine." He sniffs loudly and buries his face into his crossed arms. Rick lets his own arm drop back to his side and sits down next to him, silent. It takes a few minutes, but when Daryl raises his head again, he's gotten himself mostly under control. "Wish I'd brought back his body."

Merle. Rick remembers the way he looked, with his face smashed in and half-eaten by birds – he'd recognized him only by his clothes and by the blade attached to his arm. Not finding Lori in the machine room may have been a blessing, he finds himself thinking, and his stomach lurches at the images that flit through his mind. "I burned him," he says, as a distraction more than anything. Daryl looks at him. "When I went back for the refugees. I found him, so I burned him with the others."

Daryl turns back toward the wooden crosses. "Better than him just rottin' there, I guess." His mouth twists into something that's not quite a smile. "Don't think he would've been welcome here anyway."

Rick sighs. "He was one of us. And he died doing something good."

Daryl's eyes go watery again and he wipes at them savagely, cursing under his breath. Rick looks at the row of grave markers. He should've brought the body back – another bad decision to add to the whole hellish string of them that had led to this moment. "Make him a cross," he suggests. "There's gotta be something you can use in the wood pile."

Daryl turns to look at the kindling and scavenged wood piled up against one of the walls of the prison. Rick doubts he'll actually go for it, but after a few seconds he nods, pushes himself to his feet with one hand on Rick's shoulder, and walks off without a word.

Rick looks at Lori's cross and at the dried flowers lying at its base (Carl, probably). His eyes threaten to start tingling, so he stands up and heads away from the sound of boards knocking against each other, following the fence in the other direction.

Things are quiet beyond the prison grounds. Rick shines his light at some dark shapes that catch his eye and sees the headless aftermath of one of Michonne's evening work-outs – four or five of them, crumpled in the grass. One of the heads stares up at him, its eyes reflecting the light, and moans. He walks on, making a mental note to take care of them once the sun comes up.

He's walked almost to the front gate when he finds what he was looking for: small flowers blooming at the base of the fence, the bright yellow of their petals visible even without the flashlight. He doesn't know what they are, but he's seen them before, opening up in front of him during his evening walks. He bends down and picks a handful, then heads back to the small graveyard.

Daryl is sitting again, facing his new addition to the makeshift markers. The cross he made is made of old, singed wood and held together with twine. He hears Rick coming, this time, and lifts his head. His jaw clenches when he sees the flowers in his hand, but he's obviously cried all he could. Rick's been there enough times over the past couple of months to recognize it on his face.

He sits back down and hands the flowers to Daryl, who leans forward and places them at the base of the cross. "... He was the only one who didn't treat me like shit, you know," he says after a moment. "Before you came along."

Rick's mind provides him instantly with several instances of Merle treating his little brother like shit. Now isn't the time to point it out. "Carol?" he prompts instead.

Daryl shrugs. "None of 'em trusted me."

Rick doesn't know what to say. Daryl's no help, his face blank and exhausted and his eyes on the cross in front of him. He gives him a light pat on the back, unsure how else to react, and sits with him in silence until the stars start dimming over their heads, the sky lightening from black to purple.

Daryl leaves for his morning hunt looking little better than a walker. "Go to bed already," he mutters before walking off, all stiff limbs and bloodshot eyes. Rick isn't the kind of tired sleep can help with, but if the way he looks is inspiring _Daryl_ to nag him, he figures he might as well give it another try.

***

Rick wakes up one morning to find a blue tarp covered in berry bushes spread out close to his crops, ready for planting. There's no one around to thank for them so he simply gets to work, and between checking the book Hershel gave him for help and rigging up some wire trellis, the sun is high in the sky by the time he remembers to take a break.

He wipes the sweat off his forehead and heads to the outdoor cooking area they built in one of the courtyards, looking for water. There's a lot of people from D around, finishing up their lunches and helping clean up plates and cutlery. Carol's manning the ship, as always, standing at the counter and directing the kids around her. Rick walks over to one of the rainwater containers and tries the tap, but finds it empty.

He has to walk past the sea of only vaguely familiar faces to reach the next container. He's met all of them, technically. Talked to them long enough to make sure none of them would be a danger to his people, anyway. He still avoids eye contact, unwilling to be dragged into awkward conversations and _I'm-sorry-about-your-wife_ s.

"Need a hand with those bushes?"

The second container's empty as well. Rick turns reluctantly to the dark-haired man who's addressing him. "I'm good, thanks. Just about done with them."

"My son found 'em the other day, you know. We went out and got them this morning."

"Oh... That's great. Thanks," Rick repeats.

"Ever heard of sunscreen?"

Glad for the interruption, he looks over at Carol, who's holding up a tube of it rather pointedly, and raises a hand to his own cheek. He's surprised by how warm his skin feels. He takes the sunscreen from her with a nod and starts applying it to his face and the back of his neck.

"Get Rick some water, sweetie," Carol tells the younger of the two blond sisters. She scuttles off and comes back a few moments later with a bottle, which she holds up to him after glancing at Carol for reassurance. She's looking at him as if he were a weird stranger, he realizes, rather than just the guy from C who helped rig up their power and grows their vegetables.

"Thanks," he says, dredging up a smile, and puts down the sunscreen to take the water from her and uncap it. He starts drinking and doesn't come up for air until the bottle's three-quarters empty. The rest goes over his head, although it's not nearly cool enough to make much of a difference. He misses ice cubes.

"There's something I wanted to talk to you about," Carol says, leaning on the counter, once she's sent the girl away. Rick waits, smoothing his wet hair back, and Carol rubs the back of her neck. "... Did you eat anything today?" she finally asks.

Clearly not what she wanted to bring up. "Yeah, I'm fine. What is it?"

She clears her throat. "Daryl's looking pretty tired lately."

"Oh. Yeah," Rick replies, "he's been staying up late." He's been showing up nearly every night, in fact, like a moth attracted to the flames of Rick's campfire. He never talks much, but Rick prefers the easy silence and offerings of food to the side-eyed concern that starts permeating the cell block whenever he walks in.

"Mm. He looks pretty banged up, too." She looks down and brushes some crumbs off the counter. "I mean, it's no wonder he's slipping up, going out for supplies and food when he's that tired..."

He tries to figure out when Daryl's been sleeping and draws a blank. Between the early morning hunts, the supply runs, and the nights he's been spending with him, that leaves... what? Naps in the early evening? He frowns. "... Well, he wants to keep busy, I say we let him."

Carol drops the nonchalant act and sighs, closing her eyes briefly. "Rick. He's worried about you."

"What? I'm fine," he says, but Carol presses on.

"He's just lost his brother. How do you think he'd feel if something happened to you?"

"I'm _fine_." And maybe that was louder than he'd intended.

"You're _not_ –" Carol stops and takes a deep breath, looking away from him briefly. "Okay, Rick. You're fine." She steps around the counter and stops in front of him, snatching up the sunscreen. "You're fine, and if Daryl really hurts himself one day because he's stumbling around half-asleep, it'll have nothing to do with you keeping him up at night."

Rick stands there while she briskly rubs sunscreen onto his chest, where it's exposed by the two undone buttons on his shirt. He hadn't bothered with it, but the skin does feel sensitive under Carol's not-so-gentle touch.

She doesn't have a point, though. He's not their leader anymore, and he's not responsible for any of their actions. He never asked Daryl to follow him around like a lost puppy. "Why don't _you_ tell him to get some sleep?"

Carol slaps the tube back down, shaking her head. "Like he'll listen to me over you."

"Hey, I never asked him to do this," he says, voicing his earlier thought. "Thought you two had a thing going, anyway."

Carol laughs. Then she looks into the distance, beyond the prison fence, and laughs some more, and covers her face with both her hands. "God," she mutters before letting her arms drop back to her sides.

"So you don't have a thing going," Rick says impatiently, "whatever. You want him to sleep, you talk to him."

"Sure. Fine."

Rick's about to go when she grabs him by the arm, squeezing another patch of sensitive, reddened skin he hadn't realized was there. "I'll fix you a plate," she says, sounding resigned. "You look like a scarecrow." She makes her way behind the counter again and wipes her hands on a dishcloth. "And put some sunscreen on that."

He leaves the fire pit unlit that night. Daryl finds him anyway, sitting next to Rick in the dark and slipping his crossbow off his shoulder before pressing a candy bar into his hand. It's so stale it might as well be chocolate-covered sawdust, but Rick eats slowly, watching as Daryl nods off and jerks back into consciousness several times over the span of a couple of minutes.

"Lie down."

"You first, dumbass," Daryl replies, putting no heat whatsoever into the insult. He scrubs a hand over his face, sits a little straighter. "Spotted some pigs this morning. Babies. Hersh says we should catch 'em. You wanna come with?"

Rick blinks at the sudden invitation. "What, now?"

"Whenever I find 'em again."

"Oh. Yeah, all right."

Daryl yawns instead of acknowledging his reply. He stays right where he is, though, and still hasn't relented when Rick finally flops back onto the grass and shuts his eyes.

***

Rick's finally found something Carl's willing to help him with – in just a few hours, they managed to expand Joe's enclosure to accommodate the foal Glenn and Maggie brought back from the woods, working together in a comfortable silence that was broken only by requests for nails and tools. They're both leaning against the fence, now, watching the two horses sniff at each other in their new, larger space.

"I think Joe likes her," Rick remarks. He hopes so, anyway.

Carl clicks his tongue. "His name's _Joker_."

Rick looks over, but Carl's got the hint of a smile on his face. The horse's name was a decision he'd taken very seriously, and it had finally been decided after two solid hours of debate between him and Michonne about various comic book characters Rick knows next to nothing about. He does know a thing or two about The Joker, though, and it seems like a ridiculous name for a horse this good-natured. He's been calling him Joe ever since. It's more fitting, and Carl's reaction is always good for a laugh.

"What are you gonna name her?" he asks, nodding toward the foal. Probably Catwoman, at this rate. "'S gotta be something that goes well with Joe," he adds with a nudge to Carl, who takes the bait and glares up at him before turning to the horses again, thoughtful.

"I was thinking Harley."

"Like the bikes?"

"Like Harley Quinn," he corrects like it's obvious, then pushes himself away from the fence. "Can we get started on the pig pen?"

Rick glances up at the sky. It's about noon, judging by the sweltering heat and the position of the sun, and he could use more of a break but doesn't have it in himself to refuse Carl anything while he's in a relatively good mood. "Sure."

***

_They cannot scare me with their empty spaces_  
_Between stars - on stars where no human race is._  
_I have it in me so much nearer home_  
_To scare myself with my own desert places._

Rick shuts the book and sets it aside, then shakes his head as if he can clear it of the few verses he's just read. He can see why Hershel would find this and think of him – no matter how much he dreaded his high school English classes, even he can pick up on symbolism this obvious. He can't see how reading it, though, is helping him do anything other than dwell on his own "desert places". He's got a whole Sahara of them to contemplate, a year's worth of deaths and decisions he can't seem to make peace with.

"Knock knock."

He sits up and sees Michonne, leaning into his cell. He waves her in, grateful to have something else to focus on, and she takes a long , careful look over her shoulder before stepping inside. "We're going on a run for Carl's birthday. Anything we should try to get?"

"Carl's birthday?" he repeats, blinking, and rakes his mind for the current date. He lost track a long time ago, but... It's the right month, he knows that much. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, no longer grateful for the distraction, as images of previous birthdays – picnics, soccer-themed cakes, shiny new toys – run through his mind. "Damn it."

"Yeah, he thought it was coming up soon so we checked Beth's calendar. Turns out it's the day after tomorrow."

"Damn it," he repeats, then stands up. "I'll go with you."

"You're out of your mind if you think Daryl's taking you on a run without a gun." Her expression softens a little. "We'll try to find some comics and a couple candy bars. Anything else he likes?"

 _Firearms_ , his mind supplies unhelpfully. _Swords_. "Cake mix?" he suggests. "I could make him a birthday cake."

"You got an Easy Bake Oven hidden under there?" she asks, nodding toward his bed. The frustration must show on his face, because she steps forward and gives him a pat on the arm. "I'll see what I can do."

***

There's not a single child to be found at Carl's birthday "party". The sole guest not from Block C is Patrick, who awkwardly adds his cracking voice to the happy birthday song echoing through the room. All younger kids are still _persona non grata_ , apparently.

Carol walks over to Carl's table and sets down a plate piled high with Rice Krispies treats, freshly made using the marshmallows and sprinkles Michonne scrounged up and the stale cereal they'd apparently had lying around. They're no birthday cake, but it's a valiant effort, Rick thinks, and Carl's eyes light up all the same when he sees them. "Awesome!"

Carol grins at him and dishes up the first treat, which Daryl promptly snatches up from Carl's plate. He bites down on it, drops a shoebox into Carl's lap with an indistinct "happy birthday", and heads upstairs to sit on the catwalk that overlooks the room. Carol simply rolls her eyes with tolerant amusement and sets another treat down on Carl's plate, then sticks a striped candle into it and strikes a match.

"Make a wish," Maggie suggests, sitting across from Carl. It takes him a few moments to decide, his smile melting away as he stares into the small flame. Rick can't imagine what he's thinking – there's a thousand things he could wish for, and none of them are likely to come true.

When he finally blows out the candle, Rick joins the scattered applause, then, unable to work up an appetite, takes a seat at the bottom of the stairs while the rest of the group makes short work of the treats.

As lucky as Michonne had been to find marshmallows and sprinkles, the real catch of the run had been a tiny, low-voltage cooler that meant cold drinks for everyone – on special occasions, at least. Rick accepts the bottle of water Beth offers him and presses the cold plastic to his forehead for a moment before drinking from it.

Carl's unwrapping his gifts, now. There's the expected comic books, a couple of CDs from Patrick, a hand-made card from Beth... "Open it when you're alone," Daryl calls out from above when Carl puts a hand on the shoebox. Carl blinks up at him, then draws the box close and peeks into it. Rick leans forward, curious, but doesn't get to see the contents before Carl slams the lid back down, grinning.

Rick glances between Daryl, who's crunching away, and Carl, who's set the box down at his feet before moving on to the next present. Something about the lingering smirk on Daryl's face doesn't sit right with him. Alcohol, maybe; he'd been about Carl's age when Shane had stolen whiskey from his dad and shared it with him in a school bathroom.

Rick makes his way up the stairs and to the end of the catwalk, where Daryl sits sucking marshmallow off his fingertips. "Did you just–" He has to stop himself and try again in a lower voice. "Did you just give Carl alcohol?"

Daryl frowns up at him, finger in his mouth, then scoffs. "It ain't booze. Relax."

"What is it, then? Drugs?" That's not too hard to imagine, considering the sizable stash Merle had carried around with him. As soon as the word slips out, though, he knows he's gone too far. Daryl's expression hardens and he jumps to his feet, standing inches away from him.

"You think I'd give him _drugs_?" he spits out disgustedly.

"I thought–"

"It's some girlie mags I got from a convenience store, okay? Kid's thirteen, stop breathing down his fucking neck."

Rick doesn't even have time to process Daryl's reply before he shoulders his way past him and heads downstairs again, boots clanging heavily on each step. 

Girlie mags. He closes his eyes and presses the cool water bottle against his forehead again, fighting against the rush of embarrassment that threatens to make him groan out loud.

***

"That all you're bringin'?"

Rick puts one hand on the handle of his knife and shrugs his shoulders. Daryl eyes him for a few seconds, then simply shakes his head and starts walking, pushing the empty wheelbarrow along. One of the refugees caught a glimpse of the pigs in the woods this morning, so today's the day – and Rick's still invited, despite his stupid accusation and despite Daryl's pointed absence from their campfire for the past couple of nights. He's only too happy to accept the unspoken olive branch and pretend the entire conversation never happened.

Carl watches them in stony silence, ready to close the front gate after them. Rick walks past him without reacting to the resentment that's coming off him in waves – they've had that particular discussion about thirty times now, and there's nothing more he can say. He doesn't want Carl armed, and he doesn't want Carl out of the prison grounds if he's not armed.

"'S about ten minutes away," Daryl says, leading him into the woods at a quick pace. Rick follows wordlessly, deciding it's better not to say anything until they've reached the cover of the trees. It's not any safer there, but there are always walkers wandering near the fences, attracted by the sounds from the prison grounds, and he'd rather not waste any energy on killing them.

Daryl's either thinking along the same lines or still too angry to speak to him. Once they've reached the woods and have been walking in complete silence for several minutes, Rick decides it's probably the latter.

Eventually he abandons the wheelbarrow and starts walking more slowly, his eyes fixed on the ground. Whatever he sees among the ferns and dead leaves seems to mean something to him; after a minute, he veers off the right, then shoots Rick a glance over his shoulder and holds his finger over his lips.

It's fascinating to watch him hunt. Rick's never had the patience for it – he prefers snares – but it seems second nature to Daryl to creep around like this, his crossbow and quiver somehow no longer clinking together, the twigs and leaves silent under his feet.

He stills, suddenly, and points forward. Rick takes a few careful steps to catch up to him before looking. There's a large pig ahead, clearly a female. She's snuffling along in the undergrowth, unaware of their presence, and movement among the surrounding ferns indicates she's got piglets with her, although Rick isn't sure how many there are.

Daryl puts a hand on his shoulder, the other one already holding the coil of rope he'd hung from his belt. "I'mma go first," he murmurs into Rick's ear. "Then you go for the babies."

Rick nods and grabs his own rope. He only follows Daryl up to a point, though, and keeps completely still as he watches him sneak closer to the pigs. The mother turns her back to them and Daryl springs into action. Rick only watches long enough to make sure he's got a good hold on her before taking off at a run, scanning the undergrowth for the closest piglet.

He has no trouble catching one. He falls to his knees and ties its legs together tightly, then simply leaves it behind to squirm and squeal, wondering as he runs how he's supposed to catch up to... four more? At least four, from what he can see.

He scoops up a second piglet, but has no more rope to tie it with. The other piglets squeal in the distance, then the sounds of tiny hooves and rustling leaves start coming his way again. When Rick looks up, the piglets are running straight at him. A familiar stench makes his stomach lurch and he drops the piglet he's holding, reaching instead for his knife.

The first walker is on him already. He pins it against a tree and stabs it in the head. There are rasping moans all around him, arms reaching for him at the edge of his vision, and the blade of his knife won't pull free from the tree trunk. Black fingernails scratch at his arms and he stumbles back away from them and right into another walker.

"Daryl!" He wrenches himself away and the movement takes the walker's arm off. Daryl's answering "down!" makes him drop to the ground without a second thought. The familiar _thunk_ of Daryl's arrow hitting its mark sounds above his head and the walker collapses next to him, dead for good.

There are more coming. All he can do is scramble backwards away from them, mentally cursing himself for losing his only weapon. He looks for a rock, a branch, anything, but Daryl surges past him, knife drawn, and the next few moments are a blur of spraying blood and falling bodies.

Daryl stomps one last walker's head open with much more force than necessary, but Rick doesn't understand the cause of his anger until he whirls toward him, teeth bared and eyes burning. "Are you fucking done now?!"

Rick blinks up at him, shocked. When he finally opens his mouth to say something in reply, a wet noise from behind him makes him turn around instead. There's another walker there, chewing on the tied-up piglet.

"Shit!" Daryl hisses, stomping past him with his knuckles white on the handle of his knife. Rick gets to his feet and brushes some dirt and leaves off himself. His left elbow is stinging, and his fingers come back sticky with blood when he checks the spot. He's got scratches on his arm, too, and a few bruises, but he's otherwise fine. It could've been much worse.

Daryl is turning the fallen walker into a colander. "Daryl," he calls out, meaning to apologize, but Daryl straightens up, panting harshly, and gives him a withering look.

Giving up on talking for the time being, Rick looks around to reorient himself, spots the walker still pinned to a tree like a butterfly, and walks over to retrieve his knife. He almost topples over when the blade finally pulls free of the bark. It's been a few weeks since he's gone hand-to-hand with walkers without the safety of a fence between them, but a mistake like this is unforgivable.

The big sow is safe, at least, struggling a short distance away against the neat, sturdy-looking knots that hold her feet together. Rick starts walking over to her but Daryl waves him off in a different direction. "Get the wheelbarrow," he says, not looking at him. His hands are shaking.

Rick wants to check Daryl for injuries but obeys instead. When he comes back with the wheelbarrow a few minutes later, Daryl's waiting for him by the sow with a piglet under each arm. "Gonna have to come back for the rest of 'em." He nudges the sow with his foot. "Get her in there."

Rick manages to steal a few glances at Daryl even as he struggles with the heavy, tied-up pig. All he sees are the usual fading bruises and scabbed-over cuts – this wasn't anywhere near a close call. Not for Daryl, anyhow. There's nothing there to justify how shaken he seems.

Somehow, they and the three squealing pigs make it back to the prison without attracting any more walkers. As soon as the pigs have been put into their pen, Daryl storms off again, taking Michonne and a car this time. Rick chalks his reaction up to the adrenaline rush, then discards the thought entirely and heads for the familiar safety of his crops.

***

The sun's low in the sky when he hears the gates open and the crunch of wheels on gravel. Michonne and Daryl, finally back from their run. He takes a deep, cleansing breath and exhales slowly, shedding with it the low-key worry that weighs on his shoulders whenever some of their people are away from the prison.

Even from a distance, it's obvious that the blood-spattered car is laden with supplies. Food. Baby supplies, maybe. Michonne and Daryl climb out, their clothes dark with gore, and both grab bags from the back seat before heading off to Block C.

Daryl veers off the path and toward him, fishing for something in his bag, and Michonne waits, her face blank. Rick lets his shovel fall to the ground and catalogs the fresh wounds: there's a large cut over one of Daryl's downcast eyes, a few scrapes along one arm and a few more rips in his pants. Michonne has a handkerchief wrapped around her hand. It's hard to see anything else under the walker blood.

"Found these," Daryl says once he's close enough, grim-faced and brandishing several packets of seeds. He keeps coming closer, shoves the packets into his chest, and Rick reflexively throws up his arms to hold them as Daryl kisses him.

It's over too fast for him to do anything. He reaches for Daryl, packets dropping everywhere, and only manages to brush his hands along his sides as he turns and walks away. When he falls back into step with Michonne she touches the small of his back briefly, and Rick watches them until they disappear into the prison.

Daryl kissed him. He licks his lips, tastes the dried, flaking blood that had streaked Daryl's face, and has to sit down heavily among the seed packets.


	2. Chapter 2

It's gotten late enough and dark enough that he can't justify working outside anymore. He walks into Block C, his muscles sore and his skull feeling two sizes too small for the thoughts jangling around his head. Scattered candles are the only sources of light in the main area but he spots Judith in Beth's arms immediately, the light blue of the new dress she's wearing a bright spot in the dim room.

"How are you?" he asks both of them. Beth smiles and holds his half-asleep daughter out to him, but he leans forward and kisses the top of her head gently instead of taking her. Beth doesn't seem to mind. She starts to sing in a hushed voice, and Rick turns to look for Carl.

"He's in bed," Beth volunteers behind him, interrupting her lullaby. Rick nods in acknowledgment, unable to find it in himself to look at her again, and his feet carry him to Daryl's cell.

The door is almost completely closed and Daryl's eyes shine at him from the top bunk. Then he looks down, picking at the scrapes on his arm, and Rick slides the door open just enough to slip inside.

"You hurt?"

Daryl shakes his head, his eyes flicking back to Rick and staying there. He's sitting curled up with his back to the wall, one arm wrapped around his knees and his crossbow propped up beside him. Rick thinks of cornered animals as he takes a few careful steps forward.

"What was that about?" He knows – of course he knows, he's done enough thinking to realize Daryl's been shouting it with every move – but can't think of another way to broach the subject.

It takes Daryl a long time to reply. "Andrea," he finally says, cryptically. "Michonne said–" A corner of his mouth twitches downward and he looks away. "Stuff."

Rick crosses his arms on the edge of Daryl's bed, rests his chin on top of them. "Stuff."

" _Stuff_." He glares down at him. "Don't go buggin' her about it."

Andrea's last words, maybe. Whatever she'd said to Michonne once they'd been left alone. He looks up at Daryl, at his puffed-up defensiveness and at the sadness in his eyes, and reaches forward to put one hand over his bare foot. Daryl's frown deepens, then he looks away and stares at his crossbow, his head tilted back against the cement wall. Rick drags his thumb back and forth over Daryl's skin and time slows down to a crawl, the heavy silence that settles over them broken only by the echoing murmur of Beth's singing.

Daryl sniffs quietly, and Rick can't bear to look at the back of his head any longer. "C'mere."

He has to pull on Daryl's arm, pull him down onto his elbow before he turns to him again, eyes blank and wary. He's not crying, exactly, but his eyelashes are spiky with tears. Rick runs his thumb over the cut on his forehead. It looks like Daryl's rinsed off most of the guts, at least, but it's anyone's guess whether he's taken proper care of his wounds. "You need something for that?"

He shakes his head minutely, and Rick's left with his hand hovering next to Daryl's face. If he pulls him down and stretches up a bit he could kiss him, he thinks. So he does. His spine pops and cracks in disapproval as their lips touch, and Daryl's tiny, quiet snort nearly makes him smile.

It should be strange, kissing him, but it's Daryl. Daryl, who's saved his life more times than he can count, who's miserable with love and grief and kisses Rick like he's afraid one of them might break. That thing in his chest twists painfully again and he pulls back to draw breath.

Daryl sighs shakily, then reaches behind himself and produces a large bottle of painkillers. "They're a year outta date, but. Worked fine on me." The pills rattle as he presses the bottle into Rick's chest.

Rick can take a hint. He takes the bottle, watches as Daryl rolls over to put his back to him, and walks out of the cell.

***

Lori, Andrea, T-Dog, Sophia... Rick's gotten used to feeling responsible for people's deaths. It's a dull, distant pain, perpetually there at the back of his mind, but the grind of farmwork makes it easier to ignore. Most of the time, he can also stop himself from dwelling on how little time he's spending with Judith. This, though... Daryl. It's a new chink in his already worn-out armor, a whole new kind of guilt that gnaws at him and makes the ring on his left hand burn in reproach.

He rolls over in his bed and flexes his fingers restlessly, staring into the darkness. He'd assumed that the painkillers would help him sleep, but without the familiar soreness in his muscles and joints, there's nothing to distract him from his own thoughts.

Except... He reaches down and gropes around until he finds the poetry book, then his flashlight. A good portion of the poems seem to be about plants or farming in some way – and while he wouldn't admit it out loud, lying there trying to picture sun-burned hillsides and peaceful garden paths sure as hell beats all of the ugliness his mind comes up with at night.

The end of the third poem he lands on makes him pause.

_Ah, when to the heart of man_  
_Was it ever less than a treason_  
_To go with the drift of things,_  
_To yield with a grace to reason,_  
_And bow and accept the end_  
_Of a love or a season?_

He reads the verse again, slowly. There's nothing to follow it – no brilliant insight, no answer to the stupid question that's managed to make his chest hurt all over again.

_Treason._

Several minutes pass before he flips the book shut, shaking his head, and heads out for a walk.

***

Dawn has broken and the painkillers have worn off by the time Rick enters Block C again, numb and exhausted. It's a busy morning: Glenn's taken over the cooking, adding chunks of cooked snake to a large pot on the stove as he argues good-naturedly with Maggie over spices. Carl's on the floor, reading a comic book, Beth's feeding Judith, and Daryl... Daryl is sitting near Carl with his crossbow on his lap and his eyes boring into Rick.

Rick clears his throat. "Got some weeding to do. Carl, you coming?"

Carl eyes him. "Maybe you should have breakfast first," he replies, then ducks his head again.

The nonchalant concern feels familiar, somehow reminding him of paper bags and fresh kills left for him by the campfire. "Not you too," he says, half to himself.

"It's good," Glenn adds. "Daryl found some hot sauce yesterday."

And Rick's clearly outnumbered. Maggie's standing over the pot and looking at him, waiting, so he nods to her and sits down on a nearby chair.

He's served a plate of snake, beans, and rice. It's seasoned well and the hot sauce burns his mouth pleasantly, one of the countless sensations he took for granted before the outbreak. He manages to finish half the food before he feels too full for another bite. He pushes a piece of snake around the plate with his fork, then simply gives up and shoots Maggie an apologetic smile as he stands up.

Daryl's still next to Carl and still watching him. He looks down as soon as Rick turns their way, though, hiding behind his hair as he fiddles with his crossbow, his fingertips slick with oil. "Carl, you ready?"

He exits Block C with Carl in tow and the dawn has turned into a hot, nearly cloudless morning. Weeding shouldn't be hard – Rick can manage it on autopilot, usually, but it's not quite the same with no sleep and a full stomach. Before long he has to sit down, taking care not to crush anything, and close his eyes against the blazing sun.

"Dad. ... _Dad._ "

The sound of Carl's voice filters through his daze. He's frowning. Rick's probably been sitting there for longer than he meant to. "Yeah?"

"I'll do the rest," he says without much enthusiasm.

Rick wants to object but can't find the energy to. He squints around until his burning eyes find the nearest shaded spot – a comfortable-looking patch of grass right by the raspberry bushes – and resigns himself to a quick nap.

***

Rick shifts awkwardly, his back against the fence and Joe's head heavy on his lap. He can't sleep here in the hay, he knows, but if he goes back to his cell he'll never get to sleep, either. Or he'll dream of Lori, cut open and screaming. He prefers his hallucinations to his dreams – she'd smiled at him, then, and kissed him as if they'd still–

He shakes his head. Harley, dozing on her feet a short distance away, raises hers. Her ears are twitching. Rick picks up on the sound of footsteps a few seconds later and looks up to see Michonne, heading toward the horse enclosure.

"There you are." She vaults over the fence (of course she does) and lands quietly on her feet. Rick nods in acknowledgment, scratching Joe's forehead. He twitches a little but doesn't really react to the sound of Michonne's voice. Must be zonked out from the long runs she's been taking him on lately.

Michonne crouches next to them and pats Joe's flank before speaking again. "Pulled your head out of your ass yet?"

Rick blinks. "What?"

"People are worried about you and you're still out here every damn night, wandering the grounds like a crazy person."

Michonne is calm as she says it, but Rick's jaw clenches, anger blooming in his stomach. "I'm trying," he says. He's not out here every night, either – not anymore – but that feels like a weak defense.

"Try harder," Michonne retorts, then sighs. "Rick. Seriously. Give him a break."

This is about Daryl, then. The other half of the Daryl Dixon Defense League, come to berate Rick for making him _worry_. He wonders how much Carol already knew when she had that talk with him. "This isn't any of your business."

"I don't care. That man's so in love with you he doesn't know what to do with himself. Get a grip."

It's a precise strike that knocks all of the anger out of him, leaving him hollow and exhausted. He rubs his forehead, then smiles at Michonne humorlessly. "So, what, you'll beat me up if I hurt him?" She stares back, impassive. She _would_ beat him up. "I know he's– I know, all right? It's fine. I'm fine."

Michonne rises to her feet. "Then come inside," she says, and walks over to the fence without waiting for a reply.

Rick slips out from under Joe's head and uses the door instead of even attempting that jump. One of his legs tingles unpleasantly, numb from the horse's weight, but he lengthens his strides to catch up to Michonne. "Just gonna walk the perimeter first."

She spins around to face him, eyes wide, then takes a slow breath. "I'll do it. You go inside."

Rick throws his arms up in defeat and leaves her behind, heading for the door to Block C.

The dim light of a single lantern greets him in the main room. Daryl's sitting at one of the small tables, head in his hand as he pokes at some jigsaw puzzle pieces spread in front of him. He blinks up at Rick blearily when he walks in. "Hey."

"Hey." Rick doesn't stop, heading instead to the cells for his usual checks: Carl, then Judith. Both sleeping. He hesitates in front of his own cell, then walks back to the main room and leans into the doorway to see Daryl slumped face-down over the table, head resting on his arm.

 _So in love with you_ , Rick thinks, and guilt squirms its way around his ribcage uncomfortably. Damn Michonne for being right. "Daryl," he calls out, low enough not to wake anyone else. Daryl squints up at him. "Go to bed."

He doesn't seem to notice the three or four puzzle pieces he sweeps to the floor as he stands up. He rubs his eyes and stretches out before turning off the lantern, and seems a little more awake by the time he joins Rick by the entrance to the cells. "You gon' be okay out there?"

"I'm staying in." Even in the dark, Rick can tell his answer eases some of the exhausted tension from Daryl's back and shoulders. He reaches out, finds Daryl's chin, and runs his thumb over his lips before leaning forward to press a light kiss to them. "Good night."

He's halfway to his cell when Daryl replies with a muttered "'night" of his own.

***

All of the best intentions in the world aren't making it easier to stay inside at night. He spends what feels like hours pacing through the silent hallways long after everyone else is asleep, missing the stars and the smell of grass. Twice he wakes up drenched in sweat with horrible images in his head; on the third night he goes to bed with Judith next to him and wakes up to her hungry cries instead.

Still, he'll take the screams over his overactive subconscious. He picks Judith up from her crib and shushes her in vain as he heads for the main room.

Beth’s head pokes out from behind her curtain just as he walks by. “I got it, go back to sleep,” he says as quietly as he can over Judith, and Beth nods before disappearing again. He hates how used to this she seems to be. He should’ve been there all those nights for Judith to wake up.

There’s light in the main room already, which makes things a little easier. He heads straight for the shelves for a pot to boil water in. Carol and Daryl watch him from one of the tables, a jigsaw puzzle spread out between them. “Sorry,” he offers as he switches Judith to one arm, then takes the pot he found to the stove.

Opening a water bottle one-handed turns out to be a little tricky until Daryl appears by his side and takes Judith from him. “C’mere, Asskicker,” he says, then wanders off, speaking to her in a low voice.

If that felt as incongruously domestic for Daryl as it did for Rick, he doesn’t show it, his attention fully on the bundle in his arms. He’s good with kids. With Rick’s kids, anyway, and _there's_ a strange thought. Rick stares down at the water uncomfortably until it’s boiling. Another trip to the shelves produces a clean bottle, and he prepares the formula before setting the bottle aside to cool down.

Daryl’s sitting again, his and Carol’s heads bent together over Judith. Carol’s holding a small rattle he’s never seen before – something from a recent run, most likely – but it’s not doing much to placate Judith. He takes the chair next to Daryl’s, because they’re obviously not ready to give her up yet.

The puzzle is a new one, too, some kind of landscape with lots of tiny green and blue pieces. He rifles through the edge pieces spread out on the table and puts a couple of them together. It’s hard to concentrate with Judith’s cries jangling his nerves; for once, he’d rather be back in bed.

Once a few minutes have elapsed, he puts down the puzzle piece he's holding, intending to stand, but Daryl beats him to it. “I'll get it,” he says, passing Judith to him.

Judith quiets down as soon as Rick takes the proffered bottle and starts feeding her. He sighs in relief and straightens his back, wishing for a more comfortable chair. Daryl’s hands land on his shoulders, fingertips digging in almost hard enough to hurt. He starts to knead and Rick lets his head fall forward, warmth radiating from his shoulders and down his spine until he has to remind himself to hold the bottle up. He’s surprised, somewhere in a distant corner of his mind, that Daryl's initiating this.

"Shut up," Daryl mutters, rubbing the back of Rick’s neck. Rick looks up and Carol’s watching them, chin in her hand and eyes shining with mirth.

"What'd she say?" he asks, confused. He's just slept for a few hours; surely he can't be exhausted enough to be nodding off without even realizing it.

"I didn't say anything." Carol still seems on the verge of laughter. Rick feels like he's missed some kind of joke, but Daryl does something with his thumbs on either side of his spine and he gives up on the conversation, letting his head fall forward again.

He puts the bottle down blindly once Judith's done with it, and he's still gathering up the willpower necessary to lift her up and burp her when Carol stands up. "Come here, Judith."

Rick holds her closer to himself. "I'll do it," he says, and forces his eyes open. Judith's tiny face and bright blue eyes fill his field of vision. She chirps at him curiously, reaching for his nose.

"You're _asleep_ ," Carol retorts, then takes Judith away from him. His eyes slide closed again. "Put him back to bed once you're done with him."

Rick recognizes those as parting words but can't bring himself to say anything or really give a damn. He only realizes he's actually nodding off a few minutes later when Daryl squeezes his shoulders gently, no longer rubbing. "Any better?"

"Mmhm." He leans back, his head against Daryl's stomach, and one of Daryl's hands inches down to his chest, holding him there. "What was she laughing about?"

"Gave her a shoulder rub a while back."

Rick waits for a few seconds, but Daryl says nothing else. "Mmyeah?" he prompts.

"She asked if I wanted to screw around."

"Oh. Did you?"

"What? No."

"Mm. Too bad. She's pretty."

"Are you payin' attention?" Daryl asks. Rick hums in reply and lets his head tilt forward again, pressing his lips briefly against Daryl's arm before leaning his cheek on it. Daryl sighs above him. "Go get some sleep."

Rick shakes his head a little, unwilling to move just yet. "... Wanna screw around?" he can't resist asking, smiling at the silliness of it. Instead of the amused snort he was expecting, though, there's only silence.

"Real funny," Daryl eventually mutters.

"I'm not just humoring you," Rick says, the thought occurring to him through the sleepy haze. "If that's what you're thinking." No answer comes, so he reaches up and intertwines his fingers with Daryl's. "See? I want this."

Daryl doesn't react for so long Rick nearly falls asleep again. Staying awake isn't getting any easier with someone's body heat leeching into him. And he can't remember the last time he held someone's hand - that part's nice, too. "We should talk," he manages once it's clear Daryl isn't going to give him anything to work with. "Tomorrow."

"Uh huh." Daryl disentangles himself, but not before squeezing his fingers. "Go to bed, dumbass."

***

Rick wakes up to something brushing against his lips. He opens his eyes and Daryl's crouching there, expression guarded and crossbow jutting over his shoulder. "Just thought I'd say good mornin'."

It takes his brain a few seconds to come online and put things together. Daryl Dixon just walked into his cell and kissed him awake. He can't hold back a smile as he squints up at him. "Yeah? Don't think I heard you."

Daryl blinks, then moves in and kisses him again. Rick reaches out to hold him there by the back of the neck. If he keeps his eyes closed, this could almost feel like the normal morning of a normal person's life.

"You spend the night here?" Daryl murmurs. Rick nods, then pulls him in again, parting his lips. Daryl sighs softly into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, and Rick vaguely remembers saying something about needing to talk, the previous night, but words seem far from necessary at the moment. Neither of them have ever been good at talking, anyway.

The faint sound of voices brings Rick back to reality. He raises his head to look behind Daryl. The makeshift curtain that covers his cell door is still securely in place. He rubs his eyes and lets his head fall back to his pillows. "It's late. Been hunting already?"

"Nah, we're good on meat for a couple days. Unless we start smokin' it." He licks his lips, hesitating, then adds, "Thought we could stay in for a while."

The idea sends warmth spreading through Rick's stomach. Daryl looks a little flushed, and he wants to keep kissing him until the last of the wariness leaves his eyes. He takes a deep breath, turns onto his side, and reminds himself reluctantly of the work that's waiting for him outside the prison. "Gotta feed the animals first."

"Carl's on it."

"The squash–"

"He said he'd water whatever needs waterin'."

Rick snorts, because of course Carl would listen to Daryl. Of course Daryl's racked up more cool points with him than Rick has, with his crossbow and dirty mouth and bad-boy tattoos. Absently, he reaches out and touches the little devil inked on the inside of Daryl's arm. He's never really seen it up close.

The goosebumps rising on Daryl's skin make him look up. "Ticklish?" he asks, smiling. Daryl shakes his head mutely, and there's still that guarded look in his eyes. Rick reaches out and runs the back of his fingers over his arm just to watch him shiver again, then gives the strap of his crossbow a tug. "Take that off."

Daryl lowers the weapon to the floor carefully and shifts to sit on the edge of the mattress. He fiddles with a corner of Rick's blanket, fidgeting until Rick pulls him down and into another kiss.

"Hey Rick, have you seen– whoa, yep, okay, there he is, that's Daryl."

Daryl bangs his head against the bed above them, curses, and stumbles away just in time for Rick to see Glenn's head disappearing behind the blanket that's hung across the doorway.

Great.

" _What_ ," Daryl says loudly, already busying himself with putting his crossbow back on. A moment passes, then Glenn reappears, sweeping the blanket aside.

"I'm heading out to burn some walkers," he says, staring firmly at the wall behind Daryl. "I just thought I could use a hand. If you, uh. You don't, do you? Want to help. Yeah, never mind, I'll just–"

"I'm comin', shut up already," Daryl cuts in, rising to his feet. He pushes past Glenn and out of the cell.

Glenn turns to him. "... 'the hell?" he finally asks, but he's grinning now that Daryl's gone. "I mean, whatever, man. He's got better arms than any of us, that’s for sure. Just– _Daryl_ , really?"

Rick isn't sure he can explain it – and how little this has to do with Daryl's arms – in a way Glenn would understand. His fingers itch to touch him again. He sits up and starts rooting around for clothes he doesn't mind getting dirty. "I'm coming too, just wait for me outside."

"Oh. Oh, okay, that's not gonna be awkward or anything.''

Rick shoots him a look before pulling on an already-stained t-shirt and a pair of pants that should've made its way to his laundry pile a long time ago.

"So is this a secret? 'Cause you know I can't keep them worth a damn."

Rick pauses with only one boot on. "... I don't care if Maggie knows," he says carefully, stepping into the other one.

Glenn nods and doesn't make him explain further. "Gotcha."

***

A few corpses in, Rick is willing to concede that this may, in fact, have something to do with Daryl's arms. And his slim hips, and the way his thighs flex when he crouches down to pick up body parts. He'd happily concede, too, that the day's gone from great to awkward.

Daryl tosses the bottom half of a walker into the truck and signals to Glenn, who drives off to the next pile of bodies. He's gleaming with sweat in the late morning sun. Their eyes meet, and only the pitter-patter of the gore dripping onto Rick's boot from the head he's holding manages to snap him out of it. He clears his throat, then jogs off to catch up to the truck, throwing the head in once he's close enough.

There are half a dozen walkers piled up against this part of the fence so Glenn hops out to help, avoiding eye contact studiously as he picks up scattered limbs and heads. Daryl brushes past Rick and crouches down in front of what was once a very fat man. "Gimme a hand with this one."

The man sort of falls apart in the middle as they pick him up, great flaps of skin breaking open and spilling dark liquid onto the grass, but they manage to heave him into the truck in one piece. Daryl leans against the side of the truck, breathing hard, and pulls off one of his gore-covered gardening gloves to wipe his forehead.

Rick wants to pin him there and kiss the remaining breath out of him. He turns around, stomach flip-flopping, and reaches for the next rotting walker.

Once they've gone around the entire perimeter of the prison, Rick and Daryl climb into the back of the truck, riding the pile of corpses and firewood to the small clearing they use as a burning site. Glenn backs the truck right up to the large circle of scorched, grassless ground, and they both start kicking and pushing the walkers off.

Glenn joins in, and soon all of the bodies are piled up and topped with wood. Daryl pulls off his gloves, tosses them onto the passenger's seat of the truck through the open window, and pulls a matchbook out of his back pocket.

"So. How's the garden going?"

Rick realizes he was staring again and turns toward Glenn, taking off his gloves too. "Good. We're gonna have cucumbers and tomatoes pretty soon."

"Yeah? Nice. Maybe we could make pickles or something. They'll keep longer that way."

The smell of smoke reaches his nose and he glances at Daryl... who's staring at him, standing a little too close to the growing fire. "Yeah, sure," he says, distracted.

"Yyyyeah. Okay. We should head back." Glenn raises his voice to include Daryl, who blinks at him and stands a little straighter.

"You go ahead, man, we're gonna walk back." His eyes burn into Rick's, so he nods slightly in agreement.

"Thank God," Glenn mutters, then glances down at Rick's hip. "You should take my gun, though."

"I'm good," Rick replies automatically. He has no intention of using a gun, anyway – carrying one wouldn't do him any good.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Daryl adds, and that seems enough to reassure Glenn, although Rick can tell he's nearly in physical pain from the effort it takes him not to say something stupid in reply. He gets into the truck and drives off with one last "be careful", and then he and Daryl are alone again.

The fire crackles on. Daryl looks at him, sliding his crossbow off his shoulder to hold onto it instead, then nods toward the woods. "C'mon."

He doesn't lead them toward the prison – Rick can tell that much. They walk side by side, their arms brushing against each other every few steps, and his entire body sings with tension. "Should've stayed in."

Daryl glances at him and snorts softly. "Tell me about it. Someone's gotta take out the trash, though."

"Yeah. It's fine." He takes a deep breath. He can't smell the burning flesh anymore, and the air feels cooler here, with the trees partly blocking the sun overhead. "This is nice."

"Mm. Could be better."

That might as well be an engraved invitation. Rick stops, and Daryl turns to face him. "What?" he asks, but his eyes flick down to Rick's mouth, so Rick leans forward and kisses him. Daryl hums in pleasure, leaning into it, and something snaps inside him. He fists one hand in Daryl's shirt and pushes until his back hits the tree behind him. There's the soft thump of Daryl's crossbow falling to the leaf-covered ground and then Rick's being kissed back hard, Daryl's hands gripping his hips.

Rick bites Daryl's lip, bites his way down and tastes the sweat and dirt on his neck. " _Jesus_ ," Daryl hisses, slipping down the tree a bit, and tilts his hips up against him. He's hard and trembling and Rick wants to fucking eat him alive. He reaches for Daryl's belt buckle with unsteady fingers and Daryl grabs onto one of his wrists. "Hey, hold–hold on."

He slides the rest of the way down and thumps his head back against the tree, panting harshly. Rick follows, falling to his knees in front of him, and the red haze that seemed to cloud his mind a moment ago lifts slightly. "What?"

"'M okay, just." He draws a shuddering breath and opens his eyes, his bruised lips taking on that familiar wry quirk upward. "'S just never felt like that, y'know?"

Rick can't find his voice. He nods and raises one hand from the moist bed of dead leaves to grasp Daryl's knee. Daryl watches him from under his eyelashes, dick hard in his jeans and teeth worrying at his lower lip.

A moment passes in silence and Rick takes Daryl's slowing breaths as a sign that he's relaxing, then realizes an instant too late that he was being stalked like a squirrel. Daryl surges forward like a coiled spring and then Rick's on his back, shoulders pinned down and mouth falling open willingly to Daryl's tongue and teeth. He grinds up against the hot, heavy weight of him resting across his hips and Daryl grunts softly into his mouth. Nothing's felt this good in months.

"'M gonna suck you off," Daryl mutters, gruff and still half-kissing him. His hands leave Rick's shoulders to grope around for his zipper, and Rick seriously considers the thought of coming right there instead, arched up helplessly under Daryl with his harsh breaths on his cheek and sparks going off under his eyelids.

His hands ball into fists in the dead leaves and something squelches between his fingers. He opens his eyes, thinking _guts_ , and raises his head to see, through strands of Daryl's hair, his left hand stained brown. "Fuck."

Daryl leans back, frowning, then turns to look as Rick tries to rub off the worst of the shit onto the leaves. Deer droppings. Better than guts, somewhat, but –

"It's fresh." The glazed look is slowly leaving Daryl's eyes. He grabs his bandanna from his back pocket and pulls Rick's hand over to wipe it down, his mind clearly miles away as he scans the woods around them. Rick sits up, claiming back his hand (still filthy), and Daryl's eyes flick to him. He licks his lips, then stuffs the stained bandanna back into his pocket. "Hold that thought, yeah?"

Rick watches silently as he stands up, retrieves his crossbow, and stumbles off into the woods, grabbing at the front of his jeans.

He doesn't move for a moment, letting his brain and lungs catch up to Daryl's sudden absence. Once his heart's stopped pounding, he shifts to sit back against the tree, carefully avoiding the pile of droppings. His lips are still tingling and his skin hurts where Daryl isn't touching him anymore. He'd been about to suck his dick right there in the woods. Christ.

He adjusts his pants, then toys with the idea of jerking off before Daryl comes back. It's not like it'd take long. He can't remember Lori ever getting him this worked up. Or Lori ever being this eager to give him oral sex, for that matter.

He realizes where his thoughts have wandered and pain suddenly stabs through him. He thumps his head back against the tree trunk hard enough to rattle his teeth, then squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to think about it. About Lori, about his last, cruel words to her, and about Carl and Judith. He ought to be spending time with them, instead of–

Rick opens his eyes and breathes slowly, trying to find some kind of footing again. Avoiding Daryl won't bring her back and won't fix what was left of their relationship. He looks down at his left hand, sees dark smears on his wedding band, and rubs them off onto his pants as well as he can.

"Could use some help over here," Daryl calls out from somewhere to his right. Rick looks over and his heart leaps in his throat at the blood on Daryl's face. He jumps to his feet and reaches his side before even noticing that he's been dragging along the carcass of a good-sized buck. "Motherfucker clipped me in the head just before he bled out," he says, flushed and happy as he gestures to his bloody temple.

Rick lets out the breath he'd been holding, then grabs onto one of the deer's antlers. It's much, much too late to pretend he doesn't care. "Hope you know how to make deer jerky."

***

Once they're back on prison grounds, Rick leaves Daryl to his butchering and makes a beeline for some water. He feels more human after quenching his thirst and scrubbing his face and hands clean.

He checks on Carl (sparring with Michonne in the courtyard) before entering Block C. The smell of laundry detergent hits his nose right as he spots Carol, sitting at one of the small tables and bent over a tub of sudsy water. "No school today?"

She looks up and smiles, hands still working. "Today's Saturday," she replies, then narrows her eyes. "Is any of that yours?"

He looks down at the blood staining his clothes. "Walkers and a deer, mostly. And Daryl. He's okay," he adds, noticing the way she tenses, "just a cut."

"Oh. Good."

He watches as she wrings out the towel she'd been washing and tosses it into a basket. There's an unspoken agreement not to take more showers than necessary, and if he were small enough he'd take a dip in that tub. He peels off his disgusting t-shirt and drops it into the tub, where it floats for a few seconds, swirls of blood and dirt leeching into the water, then disappears under the surface.

Carol looks up at him, unimpressed. "Thank you," he says, moving close to give her shoulder a squeeze, and her eyes warm into amusement even as she leans away from him.

"You smell like you've been rolling around with the pigs."

"Pretty sure the pigs smell better. Have you seen Judith?"

"Upstairs with Beth." She's already started on his shirt. Rick looks at the amount of dirty clothes piled up next to her.

"I'll come back and help out," he says, and ignores her skeptical look as he makes his way to the second floor.

Beth is sitting in a patch of sunlight with Judith in her arms and a full bottle next to her. Her smile is warm and genuine, as usual, and sends familiar guilt squirming through Rick's insides. He sits down by her side, leaning back against the wall between two cell doors, and reaches over to run his hand gently over the fine hairs on Judith's head. "How are you doing?"

"Good. She's been sleeping well. And she can hold her head up a little, now."

Judith coos curiously and grasps one of his fingers in her tiny hand. Rick wonders if she recognizes him as her father, then shuts down that thought and nudges Beth with his elbow instead. "How are _you_ doing?" he repeats.

"Oh... I'm fine," she replies, her eyes on Judith. "I've been keeping busy, I guess. There's a lot to do in here."

The thin, silvery scar is still visible on the inside of her wrist. Rick frees his finger and puts his arm over Beth's shoulders. "You shouldn't have to do all this," he says. "I'm sorry."

She simply shakes her head in reply, then holds Judith out to him. "Want to feed her?"

He has to let go of Beth to cradle Judith in his arm and take the bottle she hands him. Judith's head is warm on his bare chest and she drinks hungrily.

"I know you feel guilty about... about a lot of the stuff that's happened," Beth starts suddenly, "but you shouldn't feel bad. Not about this. I like taking care of her. It's like she's ours, you know? All of us, I mean." Her eyes flick up to him briefly, then back to Judith. "And–and no one minds if you need some time. You're helping feed everyone, and Daryl's... I think Daryl needs someone, too. So." She takes a deep, nervous breath, then nods as if to herself.

It's a bit convoluted, but Rick gets the gist. He also has the sinking suspicion that it's a little late to try keeping secrets. "Thank you," he says, then, unable to stop himself, "How'd you know about Daryl?"

She shrugs and pulls on his wrist lightly. Judith's half-asleep and losing interest in the bottle. "Just because someone doesn't talk a lot doesn't mean it's not obvious they're hurting."

Maybe not too late, then. He nods in agreement, then sets the bottle down and turns to look at Beth. "Listen, I know you've got your dad here and he's probably better at this than I am, but... If there's ever anything you want to talk about, I'm here too, all right?"

"I'm okay, Rick," she says seriously. "... But thanks."

Rick nods again, and they sit in silence for a moment. It's been a long time since he was able to look at her in the eye. He feels better, somewhat. "I said I'd help Carol with the laundry," he announces. Beth holds her arms out for Judith, and Rick kisses her on the forehead before handing her back.

On impulse, he kisses Beth's forehead as well and ruffles her hair as he stands up. " _Stop_ ," she says, laughing, and bats his hand away. It's been a long time since he's heard her laugh, too, and he's smiling as he heads to his cell for fresh clothes. 

***

The setting sun silhouettes Daryl, kneeling in front of some kind of contraption he's built out of long sticks over their usual campfire spot. As he gets closer to him, Rick can tell he's still covered in gunk – the water and supplies he's bringing with him were a good call.

The sticks, held together with twine, form a rack over which Daryl's draped strips of deer. The carcass lies a few feet away, butchered neatly. Rick slows down, walking as quietly as he can, but Daryl still looks up and turns his way before he can get anywhere near him. "Did some laundry?" he asks around the stick of cinnamon stuck in his mouth.

Rick nods, then looks at the smoke billowing up from the wood chips spread below the rack. Daryl's sitting downwind – he must have smelled Rick coming. And the scent of detergent's probably as welcome to him as it was to Rick, after the day they've had. He crouches next to him, narrowly avoiding a few spice jars half-hidden by the grass. "How's the jerky going?"

"Gonna smoke 'em another couple of hours and let 'em dry for a day or two."

Rick leans closer to the rack. Some of the strips are covered in spices. "Merle's special mix," Daryl adds, shifting to sit cross-legged. Rick follows suit and drops his armful of supplies before leaning back comfortably, one of his hands planted in the grass behind Daryl. The blood and rot wafting from him under the smell of cinnamon isn't enough to stop Rick from wanting to lean closer. As soon as their shoulders touch, though, Daryl twitches away, his eyes flicking to the courtyard. "Rain check."

Rick follows his line of vision to where the kids from D are playing soccer. He should probably know their names by now. Carl's there, too. None of them are looking their way, absorbed in the game, but... but if he kisses Daryl, he's not going to be able to stop.

He picks up the bottle of water he brought, uncaps it, and splashes the side of Daryl's head. The outraged look on Daryl's face helps distract him, at least. "Lemme look at that cut," he says, grinning.

Daryl glares and snatches the bottle from his hand, somehow managing to drink from it without dropping the cinnamon. Rick picks up the towel he brought with him and brushes Daryl's wet hair away from his face with his free hand. The deer got him pretty good – on the same side as the scabbed cut on his forehead, too, but at least the two don't intersect. He has to steal the bottle back twice to scrub all of the caked blood and dirt off the side of Daryl's head, then holds him still by the arm as he disinfects the fresh wound.

Daryl's patience doesn't extend to band-aids. He slaps Rick's hand away, leaning to one side, and shakes his hair back into place. "Leave it alone, 's clean," he says. Then, grudgingly, "Thanks."

Rick gives up on the bandage and uses the last of the water to clean the blood off his hands. Once he's done he watches the smoking wood chips and listens to the crunch of cinnamon next to him, trying to focus on anything except how much he wants to be back in the woods with Daryl on top of him.

"So Merle used to cook, huh?" he finally comes up with after staring at the jerky for too long. Daryl does something that's half-nod, half-shrug. "You don't talk about him much."

"Yeah, well. You ain't said much about Lori either."

"That's–" Rick holds back his initial reaction, because it's not that different, really, and sits in silence for a moment. He tries to gather his thoughts, to figure out where he wants to start, then just lets the words spill out. "... She never liked taking care of Carl, you know. When I had to work. I think when Shane died she got scared she'd be alone with Jude."

Daryl huffs in obvious disapproval. It's not enough to make feel Rick any better about the way he treated Lori, but he appreciates the thought.

"My old man was the s..." Daryl trails off as a rattle from the nearby chain-link fence makes him turn his head. A single walker, maybe attracted by the smell of the deer carcass. He must've been about Carl's age when he died. Daryl eyes him, then turns back to Rick. "I'll take care of it."

"Yeah. I'll just– be inside," Rick decides, forcing himself to his feet. He's seen more than enough walkers for the day.

***

There's blood, so much blood, Judith being torn apart and Carl's eyes milky white as he steps over a broken crossbow, lunging for him. He wakes up gasping and stumbles from his bed, his pulse pounding in his ears as he makes his way to Carl's cell. He's there, pale and still, and Rick has to hold his breath until he hears him snore softly.

He nearly steps on Beth but stops just in time and looks down at her. She's fallen asleep in the main area, wrapped in blankets and curled up on the floor next to Judith's cradle. His mind conjures up her tiny blond head soaked in blood and he has to clench his jaw against a wave of nausea as he walks past them, one hand on the wall to guide himself.

Daryl's in bed, too, but he wakes up as soon as Rick steps into his cell. "Hey," he croaks, then raises himself up slightly, silhouetted in the dark. Rick doesn't even think to ask – he climbs up onto his bed and Daryl simply scoots back, pressing himself against the wall to make room. His hands reach out for Rick, find his wrist, and it's not so dark that Rick can't see him frown. "Hey. C'mon, turn around."

Rick turns, half maneuvered by Daryl, and then he's being pulled close, arms wrapped tight around his chest. He holds his breath, feels the slow, steady heartbeat against his back, and realizes distantly that he's panicking. "Nah, c'mon, breathe with me," Daryl says quietly. "I gotcha."

It takes several minutes of trying to match the rise and fall of Daryl's chest before he can unclench his teeth. He heaves a deep, stuttering sigh, and Daryl's grip eases up slightly. "Must've been some dream, huh?"

"The kids," he says, even though Daryl wasn't asking. _You_. He sighs again. Months of this living hell and it's still the stupid dreams that get to him, ambushing him in the night when he least expects them. He turns onto his back carefully, Daryl's arm slipping under his neck. "Didn't mean to wake you up."

He feels more than sees Daryl shrug. His free hand is warm on Rick's stomach, and he looks down at him for a long time before bending to kiss him. White heat blooms inside Rick with an intensity that almost scares him again, but within moments he's clutching at Daryl's hair, twisting to face him and tangle their legs together on the too-small bed.

Daryl bites at his lower lip and sucks on his tongue, searing all traces of the nightmare from his mind. The kisses are too short-lived – Rick nearly groans in protest when Daryl pulls away, but then realizes he's just intent on pulling Rick's t-shirt off. He raises his arms to help, then yanks impatiently at Daryl's shirt until he's finally touching warm skin. The raised scar tissue makes him pause, but Daryl pushes him onto his back, planting one knee on either side of him as his tongue and teeth explore his neck, and Rick loses his train of thought.

His breath catches when Daryl's teeth scrape against his nipple, the sharp pleasure of it completely unexpected. Daryl lingers there for a moment, then kisses and nips his way down his ribcage, lighting burning paths along nerve endings Rick didn't even know he had. His pants and underwear are pulled off and shoved carelessly off the bed and Daryl's mouth moves on to the swell of his hipbone, his hand caressing Rick's thigh.

Distracted by the touches, it takes Rick a second to recognize the clinking that breaks the silence as the sound of Daryl undoing his own belt. He suddenly wishes he could see Daryl properly, bent over him and touching himself, his mouth _soclose_ –

He finally places a slow, sucking kiss to the head of his cock that sends Rick's body teetering on the edge of no return. He has to hold his breath and clench his fingers in the sheets until he's gotten himself under control and is sure he won't moan out loud. Daryl's beard prickles the inside of his thighs as he dips his head further down and mouths at his balls, and bright stars burst in front of Rick's eyes before he remembers to start breathing again. "Fuck– Daryl–"

"Shhh." Even the warm rush of air on his cock is torture. It's followed by the slow, wet heat of Daryl's tongue up the length of it, and Rick thumps his head back against the pillow as he fights not to move or make a sound, his erection straining upwards and his hips arched desperately off the bed. Daryl pins him down with one hand and takes him into his mouth. He sucks with slow deliberation, lets out a low rumble of pleasure that skitters its way up Rick's spine, and everything around him goes still for a few heartbeats before his orgasm crashes over him.

The world trickles back into focus and he feels Daryl's harsh breaths against his hip, his knuckles rubbing against Rick's knee as he jerks himself off. Rick can't reach him and feels like his limbs just melted into the bed, anyway, but he manages to lift one hand and thread his fingers into Daryl's hair, stroking slowly as he shudders against him.

Daryl crawls back up and pants into his neck, pliant and relaxed on top of him in a way he never is during the day. Rick runs his hand down his bare back, then, on impulse, works it between their bodies and takes hold of Daryl's softening cock, giving it a few lazy strokes. Daryl jerks against him, cursing, then huffs out a laugh and bites gently at the corner of his jaw. "Jackass."

Rick hums in agreement and closes his eyes.

Daryl shakes him awake sometime later, clothes on and crossbow on his back. "Goin' out," he says, and gestures vaguely toward the door to his cell. "They're gonna be up soon."

Rick nods and rolls onto his side, listening to Daryl's quiet footsteps, then to the silence of the sleeping block. Heavy wool scratches at his bare arms when he stretches them over his head – Daryl's draped his poncho over him. After a moment of hesitation, he takes it back with him to his own cell and curls up for a couple more hours of sleep.

***

_Out through the fields and the woods_  
_And over the walls I have wended;_  
_I have climbed the hills of view_  
_And looked at the world, and descended;_  
_I have come by the highway home,_  
_And lo, it is ended._

Daryl reaches up and pulls the book down so that they can both read from it, his head comfortably resting on Rick's lap. He squints at the poem on the page, and somehow Rick doesn't think it's because of the dim light of their campfire. " _Wended_?" He scoffs. "Buncha bullshit. You actually get any of this stuff?"

"Yeah, maybe. Some of it," Rick replies vaguely, thinking of the unlit Atlanta skyline and of the cars that litter the highways like carcasses. He shakes his head to himself and tosses the book down.

"How's the soup lookin'?"

Rick leans forward to check. The sad-looking noodles and dehydrated bits of carrot from the instant chicken soup packet Daryl found on a run don't seem to be improving the simmering meat much, but Rick doesn't complain. Anything's better than plain squirrel. "Give it another minute. ... You don't have to come here and feed me anymore, you know."

"What, like I'd miss out on all this?" Daryl says with a little smile, waving a hand vaguely to encompass their half-assed camp and even more half-assed soup. He's only partly joking, though, and Rick's inclined to agree despite his earlier protest. There's something soothing about sitting here with him under the night sky. Maybe he's been reading too much poetry.

"Yeah... Guess this is as good as it's gonna get as far as dates go, huh."

Daryl blinks up at him, then simply snorts in reply and sits up to gives the soup a stir. Whatever he sees in there seems to satisfy him, and he takes the pot off the fire to pour the soup into two mugs. Rick takes his gingerly along with the spoon Daryl hands him.

"Some date," Daryl mutters before slurping down a mouthful of soup.

"What, like you've had better?" Rick retorts, meaning to tease. The faint amusement on Daryl's face fades away, though, and he stares into the fire, pensive.

"Guess not," he says after a moment, shaking his head. He drinks more soup and Rick follows suit mechanically, feeling like he's just gone somewhere he shouldn't have. Hell, for all he knows, Daryl had someone who died during–

"There was this spot," Daryl starts, his eyes still firmly on the flames, "just some shitty truck stop off I-85. There'd be guys there sometimes, in the bathroom."

Rick winces into his mug but says nothing, knowing Daryl will stop talking if he does.

"Merle followed me there one time and I told him I was tryin' to run away. Must've been seventeen or somethin'. Guess I'm lucky he bought it." He twitches his head like a horse shaking off a fly, and then his attention is back on Rick. "This is better."

"Yeah," Rick replies, at a loss for what else to say. He can't think of anything that doesn't sound like pity or an attempt at comforting Daryl, neither of which would be welcome.

Daryl swirls the soup around in his mug, then looks at him again. "You?"

It's obvious he's not asking about truck stops. Or about his dates with Lori. Rick scratches his head and takes a deep breath. "Got married right out of high school, so. Just you." There'd been stray thoughts, boys who'd caught his eye in school, but it'd been something strange and shameful that Rick Grimes, sheriff deputy, never would've acted on. Now the woods around them come alive every night with crawling bodies, and _strange_ is the last word he'd use to describe the way Daryl's expression softens every time Rick kisses him.

Definitely too much poetry.

Daryl drains his mug, scraping the last of the noodles into his mouth with his spoon, then wipes his lips on his sleeve and scoots closer as if he'd read his mind. Rick abandons the mess in his own mug and draws Daryl to him.

***

The afternoon is so hot that Rick pulls off his shirt and slathers himself in sunscreen before starting to pick raspberries. He's been at it for only a few minutes when something moves at the edge of his vision. He turns toward the blackberry bushes, squinting. There's the glint of an eye between the leaves and a dull _thunk_ , and Rick doesn't even have time to think about ducking before a small object bounces harmlessly off his forehead and to the ground.

He looks down at the bright red, sucker-tipped little plastic thing now lying at his feet, and then Daryl emerges from the foliage, holding a toy crossbow and looking possibly more satisfied with himself than Rick's ever seen him. "Gotcha."

Good to know he's considered a better catch than the squirrels. Shaking his head amusedly, he kicks away the projectile – more of a dart than an arrow, really – and returns to his work.

"Hey!" Daryl bends to retrieve the dart, then waves the crossbow in his direction. "Michonne got this for the kids."

"I don't think we should encourage them to–"

"Play with weapons," Daryl says in chorus with him. "Uh huh." He puts the toy down carefully, then joins him by the raspberries, grabs an empty plastic bowl, and starts picking.

Rick wonders if this is what Daryl was like before everything went to hell. He'll never know. He likes this, though, the smile lingering around Daryl's eyes and the way he's eating more than he's picking.

"What?" he eventually asks around a mouthful of raspberries, realizing Rick's eyes are on him. Rick grabs onto the mostly-empty bowl and onto Daryl's shoulder before sweeping his legs out from under him neatly. He goes down with a surprised yelp and a spray of pink flecks, but not before grabbing onto Rick, just managing to throw him off balance.

They tussle, and it takes Daryl only a few moments' struggle to flip him over and pin him down. "You tryn'a start somethin', Grimes?"

"You shot me first," Rick replies, and Daryl leans into him, a playful spark in his eyes.

"Yeah, well, you go 'round lookin' like that, you gon' get in trouble."

Rick snorts, running one hand over Daryl's thigh. He's not sure whether that's supposed to refer to his half-dressed state or to the beard he hasn't bothered to shave in several days, but then he's distracted by how uncomfortable Daryl looks, suddenly – his brows are furrowed and he's straightened up a bit.

 _You go 'round lookin' like that_... Rick doesn't have to strain too much to figure out where Daryl might've heard that one before. He slides his hand to the back of Daryl's thigh, squeezes. "Get down here." That's enough for him to come back to Earth, his lips quirking up again as he leans down.

They've only been kissing for a moment when a shout rings out through the empty prison grounds. "Daryl!"

It's Carl, and there's no mistaking the urgency in his voice. The pounding of his boots against the ground reaches Rick's ears right before he skids into view, panting. Something changes on his face when he sees them, but it's gone in a second. "Walkers," he says, and Daryl jumps to his feet. "Maybe fifteen– more– there's a hole in the fence. Behind A."

Rick stands up, reaches for his gun and touches only denim. "I'm going," he says anyway, because Daryl's already about to bolt.

"No. Go to D, get everyone who can fight," Daryl tells Carl, who nods and runs off again.

"I'm going. Give me your knife." He reaches for it but Daryl smacks his hand away and grabs him by the upper arm, gives him a shake.

"No! Get the fuck inside and stay with Judith." He takes off without waiting for an answer. Rick doesn't have much of a choice – he heads off to Block C, cursing to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

"Walkers!" Rick shouts as he runs into the prison. Heads start poking out of cells – Carol, Beth, then Glenn streaks past him with a rifle in his hands. "Behind death row," Rick calls out. Glenn nods without looking back.

Carol and Maggie follow him out a minute later. Rick doesn't give the idea of staying inside even a second's thought. "Stay with Judith," he tells Beth, who's still putting on her shoes. He waits until she nods, then runs back out of the prison.

Several of the Woodbury refugees are standing in a rough semi-circle, shooting at the walkers that trickle into the courtyard. Fifteen was an understatement – a sizable horde has gathered behind the fence, pushing forward mindlessly. Too many to shoot.

Rick moves closer until he can see the hole better. The links of the fence have been cut open neatly, the edges dripping with blood and gore from the invading walkers. He looks around for something to repair the fence with and notices Carl among the shooters, steadily downing walkers with a rifle that seems much too big for him. Daryl's there too, crossbow raised. There's a length of chain and a padlock at his feet – he must've grabbed them on his way there.

Daryl lowers his weapon when Rick snatches up the chain and padlock. "Hey!" he says, reaching for his arm, but Rick shakes him off. He has to shove a walker out of his way as he approaches the fence. A bullet whizzes by and another walker falls in front of him.

"Stop shootin'!" Daryl shouts.

Rick keeps running until he reaches the fence. It takes him a while to pull the bent flaps of chain link together again and thread the chain through them – he has to let go several times to shove back the walkers and avoid their gaping mouths and scrabbling fingers, but Maggie soon joins him at the fence, keeping them at bay. Daryl whistles in warning behind him and an arrow flies over his shoulder and straight into a walker's skull, spattering Rick with blood.

Some of the refugees join them at the fence, knives in hand, and between their blades and Daryl's arrows, he finally manages to secure the padlock. The walkers push and pull at the chain, but the crush of rotting bodies isn't large enough yet to take down the fence. It would hold while they stab and slice their way through them.

Rick backs away, then turns around to examine the scene. The trail of dead walkers leads him halfway to the door to death row, where the fresh corpse of a woman lies face down on the ground. Her backpack lies a few feet away and her leg has been torn to shreds by a walker.

"Careful," Daryl warns, approaching with his crossbow raised and his last arrow pointed at the corpse. Rick nudges her with his foot, gets no reaction, and moves on to her backpack. There isn't much of use in there – a bloodstained, beaten-up notebook, dirty clothes, empty water bottles... he's about to leave it for the refugees to sort through when he finds a small mp3 player in a side pocket.

He looks up. Carl's standing at the fence and putting his knife to good use, bodies already piling up in front of him. "Carl, come here."

Carl stabs one last walker, then turns and walks over sullenly, flicking some blood off his blade. He stops in front of him and Daryl and eyes both of them.

Rick holds the mp3 player out to him. "You want this?"

Carl shrugs. He's angry.

"Patrick will want it," Rick continues, desperate to get some kind of reply from him. Or at least to fill the uncomfortable silence. "You, uh, you should go and give it to him."

The look Carl gives him is pure disgust, but he snatches the mp3 player from him and shoves it into his back pocket before heading right back to the fence. 

***

Rick makes his way back to Block C well past dinner time, carrying half the raspberries he's picked (the other half he left in front of the door to Block D). He leaves the container on the nearest table and Beth descends upon them after smiling at him in thanks. Daryl's there too, perched on the catwalk, but the block seems oddly quiet otherwise. The council's having a meeting, maybe.

"Judith's in the library with Carol and everyone else," Beth says without Rick having to ask. 

He looks around the empty block once more. "Have you seen Carl?"

Beth shakes her head. Rick, tired from the earlier incident, decides to simply sit down and wait for him to come back. 

It doesn't take long before he reappears, towel around his neck, hair damp, and carrying a toothbrush. Rick's hoping he's calmed down, but as soon as Carl spots him, his expression darkens and he makes a beeline for his cell.

"Want some raspberries?" Rick tries, feeling stupid. Carl doesn't acknowledge him, and the clanging sound of his closing cell door resounds through the block a few seconds later.

Rick sighs and picks at the grime and soil under his fingernails. He would've found out sooner or later, he tries to tell himself. That doesn't do much to make him feel better.

After a few moments, he realizes that Beth's sat down facing him, one elbow on the table and her hand on her cheek. She doesn't seem to know what's wrong but sits there in silence, giving Rick a slight smile when he finally meets her eyes. She plucks a few raspberries from the container, drops them into his hand, and glances up toward the catwalk meaningfully.

Daryl's sitting in the shadows with his back to the wall, finger and thumb working wax carefully onto the string of his crossbow. He watches Rick approach but says nothing. He looks... sad, and Rick realizes Carl's reaction probably didn't feel great for him, either.

Daryl takes the berries Rick offers, pops them into his mouth, then lowers his head again to fiddle with the crossbow. "Thanks."

Rick runs his fingers through Daryl's hair, pulling it away from his face, but Daryl doesn't look at him. His hair's greasy – and so's Rick's, and his shirt sticks to his skin uncomfortably thanks to the walker gore. "Come to the showers in an hour," he murmurs, squeezing the back of Daryl's neck before standing up again.

Daryl blinks up at him. "... 'kay." His expression seems to lighten as little as he goes back to his fiddling, though. Rick smiles to himself and heads out for some water.

***

Rick feels even filthier by the time Daryl joins him – carrying buckets and buckets of water from the pump to his campfire and all the way to the showers was exhausting, but at least they'd have enough hot water for a while. He finishes undressing, dropping his clothes into a careless pile on the floor, but when he turns around Daryl's still fully dressed, leather vest hanging from one hand and eyes dark as he watches him. Rick almost feels self-conscious, then remembers the feel of scar tissue under his fingertips and realizes what's going on.

It's too late to worry about it. He starts the shower and steps under the spray, his back to Daryl. The water's nearly too hot. He tilts his head back into it, letting it sluice over his sore muscles, and after a minute he hears the quiet rustling of clothing behind him.

He steps forward to share the water but studiously ignores Daryl, focusing instead on soaping himself up and washing off a few days' worth of soil and walker grime. He's rinsing his hair when Daryl touches him – just his hands on Rick's shoulders, then a kiss pressed to the back of his neck, somehow hotter than the water beating over his head. He reaches back to tangle a hand into Daryl's wet hair and Daryl finally steps forward, pressing their bodies together from shoulders to knees.

He's hard (reassuring) and the beard on his chin scratches Rick's shoulder as he slides his hands down to his sides. "What happened there?" he asks. It takes Rick several seconds to realize what he's probing at with his left hand.

"Got shot," he replies, and Daryl goes very still behind him. "Before all this."

"... Sorry sumbitch better hope he's dead already," he grumbles into Rick's neck, then slides his arms around his waist. Rick leans back into the embrace. He's not sure he can breathe, much less formulate a reply, caught like this between the hot pressure of the water and the heat of Daryl's mouth on him. And when Daryl's hand closes gently around his cock, Rick forgets what they were even talking about.

Daryl keeps his pace slow, his free hand caressing his hip. Rick tries to return the favor, tries to reach back to touch him, but Daryl pulls his hand away and presses himself closer. It's easier to give in, so he simply leans his head back against Daryl's shoulder and lets him do things his way.

He has Rick panting and squirming in a few minutes, liquid heat pooling in his belly with every stroke and every one of Daryl's breaths on his wet skin. "Daryl," he says warningly, but the slick grip around his cock only tightens, and Daryl's free arm wraps itself around him again, holding him steady as he comes.

Rick sucks in some hot, steamy air, rubbing Daryl's arm slowly while he catches his breath. He opens his eyes, and the hot water dripping into them reminds him not to take _too_ long to reciprocate; there's no way to tell how much of it is left. After pushing his hair out of his eyes, he turns around and catches Daryl's mouth in a lazy kiss, reaching up to caress his chest.

The scars are on his chest, too, many more and much deeper than he would've thought, judging by the feel of them. He sneaks a look at them and has to wrench his attention back to what he was doing, trailing kisses from Daryl's jaw to the hollow above his collarbone as he runs his hands slowly over his abdomen, below most of the marks. He's tensing up. Rick doesn't want to stop touching him.

He kisses his way back up Daryl's neck and nuzzles his way past the wet strands of hair to speak into his ear. "You're gorgeous," he tries, and the look Daryl gives him when he draws back could strip the tiles right off the wall. Rick smiles despite himself and strokes his stomach soothingly. "Sorry."

Daryl's cock bumps against his wrist. He glances down, then bends his head to start kissing his way down again. Daryl only puts up with it for a moment before putting a hand on Rick's shoulder and pushing down. He sinks to his knees, conceding defeat, and strokes the back of Daryl's thighs instead as he watches his twitching erection. His tongue curls against his teeth at the sight, some long-repressed hunger rolling through him, and he licks his lips before leaning forward.

Daryl moans unsteadily above him as he licks a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. The tip is gleaming with moisture. Rick darts his tongue out to taste, then takes the head into his mouth. The blunt shape of it feels more comfortable than it should as it fills his mouth and rubs against his palate, and Daryl's hands ball into fists at the edge of his vision.

He sucks slowly until the water above them slows to a weak drizzle, then to mere drops. Daryl's fingers scrabble for purchase against his scalp and tighten in his hair, his panting breaths echoing off the walls of the now silent room.

Rick is pulled into a faster rhythm and knows it won't be much longer. He glances up and Daryl's watching him, pupils blown wide and chest heaving. He flings his free hand up to his mouth when he comes, biting his knuckles, and Rick's dick twitches half-heartedly as Daryl's pulses in his mouth.

He swallows – it seems easier than fetching more water just to rinse the floor – and licks slowly at Daryl until he pushes his head away and slides down to sit on the wet tiles, obviously jelly-legged. It'd be flattering, but Rick's fairly sure it was a shitty blowjob and Daryl's just that taken with him. The thought makes him smile to himself despite his aching knees and jaw.

"Jesus."

Rick moves closer, nudging Daryl's legs apart, and hides his smile against his ear. "Let's go to bed."

"The top of my head just blew off, gimme a fuckin' minute," he grouses in reply, then drops his head to mouth and bite affectionately at his shoulder.

"C'mon," Rick has to say several minutes later, and what feels like half of his joints pop as he stands up. He hands Daryl his towel before grabbing his own and drying off. He considers the pile of dirty clothes on the floor for a few seconds, but can't find the motivation and instead wraps his towel around his waist.

Daryl, predictably, steps past him and bends to pick his pants off the floor. The large tattoos on his back distract Rick from the jagged, pinkish scars, and he laughs when he realizes what they are. "Demons again?"

He glances at Rick and smiles wryly even as he angles himself away, his shoulders hunching over. "Uh huh. Got lots of 'em."

Rick gathers up his clothes, and when he looks at Daryl again he's got his shirt and vest back on. It's late enough that the corridors are deserted, and Daryl stops them twice on the way back to their cells, pressing Rick into the wall to give him slow, lazy kisses that steadily eat away at his willpower. He still has an arm slung over him when they reach Rick's cell, and huffs in protest when Rick tries to disentangle himself. "Who gives a shit," he mutters, sliding his hands down to Rick's hips as he backs him into the cell.

 _Carl_ , Rick thinks, but thankfully, Daryl doesn't make him say it. "I'll be outta here before the sun's up," he adds, backing Rick all the way to his bed.

Rick should shoo him off to his own cell. He drops his towel and his clothes, instead, and lies down. Daryl drapes himself over him like a heavy, cuddly blanket, and Rick's out like a light a minute later.

***

"–dunno, Carol said something's wrong with it."

"A'ight, I'm on it."

He's vaguely aware of Daryl slipping away from him, of the mattress sagging on one side.

"How are the pigs doin'?"

The stale air of his cell feels cool on his sleep-warm skin. He turns his head into his pillow and burrows deeper into his blanket, chasing Daryl's lingering smell and body heat. Carl talks about the pigs and he listens without really understanding any of the words.

"Maybe another four, five months," Daryl says, squeezing Rick's arm lightly, just under his elbow, as if checking whether he's awake.

"That long?"

"Yeah." There's a pause. "You're gettin' pretty big, though. Guess we could just eat you instead."

The morbid joke makes Carl snort and shocks the last traces of sleep from Rick. He opens his eyes and sees Carl standing in the doorway, one arm wrapped loosely around the steel bars, smiling. Rick shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, and the smile slides right off his face. "Anyway, see you later," he mutters, then slouches away.

Daryl glances back at Rick, having correctly guessed the reason for Carl's sudden change of mood. He hesitates for a few seconds, then simply shrugs instead of saying anything about it. "Gonna go fix the water pump. 'S early, get some rest."

Rick nods and flops back down. He gives it a couple of minutes, once he's alone in the cell, but he's wide awake – no use pretending otherwise. 

The sounds of conversation and smell of coffee lead him to the block's main room, where Hershel and Maggie are sitting, steaming mugs in front of them. Carl hasn't gotten so big that he's developed a taste for coffee just yet; he's standing next to them with a can of Coke in his hand instead. Lori would've had a fit.

As soon as Rick approaches, Carl rolls his eyes, sets his can down hard, and brushes past him on his way back to the cells. It's obvious he hasn't cooled down overnight. Rick's going to have to deal with it.

"Mornin'," Maggie offers in a valiant attempt at nonchalance. Rick nods to both of them, picks up the can as a makeshift peace offering, and follows Carl. 

He's drawn his curtain closed, but the door to his cell is open. Rick steps inside and finds him flopped down on his stomach, comic book open over his pillow. "Carl."

He does a fantastic job of acting like Rick doesn't exist. Rick sits down next to him, but that doesn't get a reaction, either. "Carl, can I talk to you?"

He flips a page with much more force than necessary. Clearly, he's not going to make this any easier for either of them. Rick sets the can of Coke down on the crate Carl is using as a bedside table, then takes a breath. "Listen, I know your friends at school probably made fun of– of people like Daryl. And– and me," he feels forced to add when he hears how unfair that sounded coming out of his mouth.

Carl raises his head and _looks_ at him. This is going about as well as Rick thought it would.

"But it's not any different from... Glenn and Maggie, or–"

"I don't _care_!" Carl says savagely, slamming the comic book shut. "I don't care that it's Daryl! Why don't _you_ care that mom's dead?!"

The question feels like a punch to the solar plexus. "That's not fair, Carl," he replies, his throat tightening despite his best efforts. "I miss her. Every day."

"Liar."

"I know we fought sometimes. That doesn't mean we didn't love each other." And now it feels like he's repeating platitudes he heard on TV. Has he always been so bad at this? He sifts through his memories and has to go far, far into the past before finding something to grasp onto. "Remember her pancakes? I miss those, even."

Carl turns back to his book, shrugging, and plays with a corner of the cover. That seems to have mollified him a little, though, so Rick goes on. "I wish she were here to see Jude. She would've been so proud of you for taking care of her, you know." He's doing a better job at that than Rick himself is, too. Everything goes blurry and he has to wipe his eyes before speaking again. "I'm not trying to replace her, okay?"

Silence.

"Daryl's... Daryl's just..." Daryl loves him with an unwavering fierceness Lori never had, and makes everything ache a bit less when he's around. He can't say any of that. "He helps. And you like him too."

"Doesn't mean I wanna kiss him," Carl mutters.

"That's not the point. You called for him yesterday, didn't you? When the walkers came," he says, careful not to let any of his stung pride seep into his voice.

Carl sits up to face him, angry all over again. "It's not like you could've helped, the way you've been acting with your stupid garden," he retorts. Rick shouldn't have gone there. "And if I had my gun, I wouldn't have to call for anyone!"

"I'm just trying to keep you safe."

"You can't," he says flatly, then shakes his head and scoots to the edge of his bed. Rick watches as he stands up, grabbing the Coke can on his way out. "Maybe Daryl can help you find your balls again," he adds as a parting shot once he's at a safe distance, glancing back at him with all the scorn a thirteen-year-old can muster.

" _Carl_ ," Rick warns, but he simply stalks out of the cell without another word. Rick sighs. Carl tried to make this about the old fight over weapons they've had about a dozen times before, at least, which probably means he'll come around regarding Daryl. It's not much of a consolation.

***

Two days of rain in a row means everyone's spending an uncharacteristically high amount of time inside the prison. That suits Rick just fine; there isn't much to do with his crops, either, and he's happy to spend the afternoon in bed, sitting back against Daryl with nothing better to do than to listen to the pitter-patter of raindrops and the slow heartbeat against his back.

The single lamp they lit isn't doing much to fight against the dim, grey dampness that's creeping in from outside. Rick closes his eyes, idly running his fingers over a small hole in Daryl's jeans. He's had his nose buried in the Robert Frost book for a while, now, holding it too high for Rick to see. Not that Rick's all that interested – he still feels creaky and fuzzy around the edges, like his body hasn't recovered from weeks of too much farming and too little sleep, and the warmth of Daryl's body against his makes it hard to resist dozing off.

He opens his eyes, unsure when he closed them, to an amused-sounding snort that ruffles the hair close to his ear. "Hmm?" he asks vaguely, and Daryl lowers the book instead of answering him. Rick rubs a hand over his face before focusing on the small characters before him.

_Tree at my window, window tree,_  
_My sash is lowered when night comes on;_  
_But let there never be curtain drawn_  
_Between you and me._

_Vague dream head lifted out of the ground,_  
_And thing next most diffuse to cloud,_  
_Not all your light tongues talking aloud_  
_Could be profound._

_But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,_  
_And if you have seen me when I slept,_  
_You have seen me when I was taken and swept_  
_And all but lost._

_That day she put our heads together,_  
_Fate had her imagination about her,_  
_Your head so much concerned with outer,_  
_Mine with inner, weather._

He has to read the poem twice before even guessing at what's tickled Daryl's funny bone. "... You callin' me a tree?"

"I'm callin' _me_ a tree... I think." Rick feels him shrug, then he flips to the next page.

A tree. It's a surprisingly romantic sentiment, coming from him. He's been a steady presence at Rick's side for the past few weeks, though, watching over him while he slept and making sure he didn't starve while caring for his crops. Not a half-bad comparison.

The tiny star tattooed on Daryl's hand moves under his nose as he turns another page. Rick reaches up to touch it. He's got a tiny cross over his collarbone, too, and a star on the inside of his wrist. Rick's sure there must be a story behind each of them. Daryl reacts to the touch by letting his arm drop over Rick's chest and rubbing his stomach slowly, and Rick decides there'll be time to ask later.

He closes his eyes again and only opens them when two metallic-sounding knocks against the bars to his cell force him to. "Rick? Are you decent in there?" Hershel asks from behind the curtain.

"Yeah, come in," Rick replies automatically, but regrets it when Daryl stiffens behind him and starts disentangling himself. Rick sits up, scooting out of his way to sit on the edge of the mattress. "Sorry," he mouths as Hershel walks in.

Daryl shrugs, expressionless, but gives his hand a quick squeeze before standing up. "'Sup, Hersh."

"Hi, Daryl," Hershel replies, then looks entirely unsurprised to see him slink out of the cell after their summary greetings. He walks over and sits down next to Rick, propping his cane against the edge of his bed.

"Something wrong?" Rick asks.

"No." Hershel's eyes crinkle up at him. He's smiling, somewhere under the beard. "You're feeling better."

"Guess I am," Rick says cautiously. "The farming helps. And the book," he adds, glancing toward the head of the bed, but Daryl must have taken it with him. "Thanks."

"I hear Daryl's helping too."

Something about the wording and about Hershel's tone makes Rick's stomach sink. He must've heard that fight with Carl. "I– yeah," he replies uncomfortably, suddenly understanding the line of questioning Daryl just fled from.

Hershel's eyes are steady on him. "Have you talked to Carl?"

"Listen." He clears his throat. "I know you're a religious man, but."

"I'm not here to judge, Rick," Hershel cuts in. "There isn't nearly enough happiness left in the world. If it's my blessing you want, you've got it."

Hershel's blessing. Rick wouldn't have gone that far, but hearing it eases something inside him all the same. "It'd be great if Carl saw it that way."

"He's angry," Hershel agrees. "Maggie was angry too, when I met Beth's mother."

Rick hadn't considered the parallels. "When did she get over it?"

"When she became old enough to understand how happy I was and how much better our life became," Hershel replies. "I wish I'd done some things differently, now, but I thought I was doing what was best for both of us at the time. I wanted to be with Annette, and Maggie needed a mother."

"You don't think Carl does?"

Part of Rick is expecting one of Hershel's strange little cracks in reply, but he leans back and sighs deeply instead. "I think Carl needs someone who understands him and spends time with him. Do you think Lori did?"

"She did the best she could," he offers, because that's the best he can do without lying. 

"Well, so are you. And Daryl's doing better than either of you right now."

Rick can't help but wince at the reproach implied in Hershel's words. Not that he isn't right.

"You're still his hero, Rick. He'll come around."

"I wouldn't put him through that if I wasn't... if things weren't..." He gives up on articulating his thought and shakes his head. "Guess you can't choose who you fall in love with, huh."

"No, I guess you can't." He pauses for a moment. "You'd think Daryl could do much better, with a body like that."

Rick looks up, blinking, and Hershel's face is serious but his eyes are dancing. He laughs despite himself. "Yeah, well. Pretty slim pickings, around here."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Caleb told me he lost his partner at the start of the outbreak."

"Caleb?"

"Doctor S." Rick's face must look as blank as his mind is, because Hershel shakes his head amusedly before adding, "The Indian man, Rick. From D."

That clicks, finally, but Rick doesn't think they've spoken beyond their initial introductions when the man was first brought to the prison. Maybe he should go over there, talk to a few people. He can't imagine what kind of impression he's been leaving.

"Your crops are doing well. Maybe it's time to join us again," Hershel says, echoing his thoughts. "You could come to a council meeting."

The words "council meeting" make them sound more ominous than Rick knows they are. He made sure everything would run smoothly before withdrawing into his crops and into himself – they have power, food, and even caches of emergency supplies and evacuation procedures in place in case something happens. Aside from scheduling supply runs and keeping the children happy and busy, there can't be that much to do. He runs a hand through his hair, looking through his open curtain at the gray sky beyond the barred window. "I don't know."

"We don't need a leader, but we could use your advice," Hershel says, then pats him on the back. "Think about it."

Rick nods. Hershel picks up his cane and pushes himself to his feet, leaving him to his thoughts.

***

Rick wakes up as the first rays of sunlight hit the inside of the guard tower. He tries to throw one arm over Daryl, but he's gone already. Rick's never really seen him sleep – the privacy of the tower had been worth the trouble of dragging a spare mattress all the way from the prison and up the narrow stairs, though, just to hear him moan and to curl up with him without the fear of someone walking in.

The tower gives him a good vantage point to observe the prison grounds. It's early enough that most people are still sleeping, but he spots the two blond girls from D standing by the inner fence, watching a few walkers that have gathered overnight. Beth's at the outer fence, whistling to get the walkers' attention. A woman is in the courtyard, gathering laundry from the clotheslines, and Harley and Joe are working on a pile of roughage, their bay coats outlined in gold by the sunlight. They've been fed – that must mean Carl's already up and around somewhere.

He retrieves his scattered clothes from the floor and pulls them on, then makes his way out of the tower. Beth's closer, so he decides to check on her first. She doesn't notice him coming and she's smiling as she stabs a walker in the head through the fence, her mind obviously miles away from the task at hand.

"Beth," he says quietly. She jumps and squeaks anyway, whirling to face him, then laughs and lets her hand fall to her side.

"Sorry. Hi. I left Judith with Carol, they're still asleep." An arm reaches through the fence, and she takes a step away. "And Carl and Daryl are out there somewhere."

"On a run?" Rick asks, frowning.

Beth stabs another walker before answering. "I don't think so. Maybe they're checking the snares?"

"Maybe," Rick replies, looking through the fence toward the line of trees in the distance. There's only one walker left, about thirty feet away, but it doesn't seem interested in them.

"Rick? I wanted to ask you something."

When Rick looks over at her, she's put away her knife and wiped her hands on her apron. She fiddles with a corner of the bloody fabric, then looks up at him, flicking some hair out of her face. "Um. You and Daryl are– I mean, he's your..."

"Yeah," Rick replies before she can try to put a word on it. It probably would've been _boyfriend_ , too, Jesus. At least she's not asking Daryl.

"Yeah," she repeats, nodding emphatically, her thin eyebrows raised high. "Yeah, so. I was wondering. If you have any condoms."

The question catches him completely off-guard, and scattered memories from the previous night flit through his mind – Daryl's rough fingers around him, the taste of his come on Rick's tongue. No condoms – he hadn't even considered it. Beth's face is rapidly changing colors but she stands her ground, looking at him in silence. "Oh," he starts, then turns to check on the two girls from D. They're well out of earshot. "You found a boyfriend, huh?"

A slightly more embarrassed version of that smile from earlier appears on her face. "Yeah... Zack. You know him, right?"

"Zack. Sure." He has no idea who Zack is. That explains the daydreaming, though. "Is he nice?"

"Mmhm. Dad's already gone over that stuff, so if you could just..."

"Find you some condoms. Yeah. All right." He rattles the fence and the walker finally turns and starts hobbling their way. "Don't let him rush you into anything, though."

"Dad went over that too," she says, then smiles at him again. "Sorry– I mean, I appreciate it, but Zack's great. Just don't tell anyone, okay?"

Rick draws an imaginary zipper closed over his mouth. "Thanks," Beth says, then cranes her neck and rises on tiptoe, looking over his shoulder. "They're back."

He turns around to see two small figures heading for the front gates. He can't make out what Daryl's got draped over his shoulders. It's too dark to be a deer, but much too big for any of Daryl's usual kills. Carl's carrying his crossbow for him, the arrows only bright red and green dots over his shoulder at this distance.

"You should go open the gates."

Rick checks on the hobbling walker. It's closer to the fence but still has a way to go, walking on a broken ankle with its foot dragging behind it. "Want me to handle this guy first?"

"Pfft." She grabs her knife and gives him a push with her other hand, leaving smears of blood on his clean shirt. "Go."

He has to jog to get to the front gates before Daryl and Carl do and only gets a better look at them as he's cranking them open. Their arms are coated in blood up to the elbows, and the black thing Daryl's carrying turns out to be – Rick does a double-take, but the large tusks and hooves are hard to mistake for anything else. "You took down a boar?" he calls out, closing the gate again.

"Carl took down a boar," Daryl corrects, cheerful pride in his voice.

"Nice job."

Carl looks halfway between pleased and annoyed. "Not like you don't know I'm a good shot," he mutters before slipping Daryl's crossbow and quiver off his shoulder. Daryl drops the carcass and takes them from him.

It takes Carl three tries to pick up the boar. Rick has to resist the urge to help him, because assuming that Daryl made the kill was probably enough condescension for one day. He finally gets a good grip on it and sets off toward the prison, legs wobbling unsteadily. "I'm calling the shower," he announces without looking back.

"Fine," Daryl replies loudly, then shoots Rick a little smile as he retrieves something from his quiver. "Look at this."

It's his bandanna, blood-stained (as it is more often than not) and tied around something lumpy. Daryl pulls the knot open to reveal a handful of chicken eggs. "Mama got away, but I'll whip up an omelette or somethin' for breakfast tomorrow."

Eggs and bacon. Rick's stomach rumbles, unexpectedly. It sounds much better than Daryl's usual squirrel cuisine. "What about dinner? You gonna be in?"

"Nah, Michonne said she found a good spot a couple of hours away. Lots of supplies. We're gonna take the truck and check it out." He ties the bandanna again and steps closer, pressing it into Rick's chest. "Keep 'em in your cell."

Rick takes the bundle and Daryl slips his arm around him, probably getting blood all over the back of his shirt, too. "Are you leaving right away?"

"Yeah, gonna grab a couple extra guns and get goin'."

"Bring back condoms if you find 'em," Rick says, Beth's request still fresh in his mind. Daryl stares at him, his eyes narrowing. He must be thinking Rick's trying to– "For Beth. She's got a boyfriend."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I've been sworn to secrecy."

"Must be Zack." He pulls Rick a little closer and leans in, his lips against his ear and his free hand slipping down to Rick's ass. "I'd fuck you, though," he murmurs, squeezing. It's a nice save, as if Daryl hadn't assumed the exact opposite and been alarmed by the idea just a moment ago. Rick can tell. He still gets skittish, still tenses up when Rick lays his hands or eyes on the wrong part of him, and Rick knows better than to suggest something that intimate.

"Might let you," he replies, playing along, then pushes Daryl's shoulder lightly. "Those two little girls were standing at the fence earlier."

"Mm. Lizzie's been through worse than seein' my hand on your ass. Can't see 'em, anyway." Daryl seems to know everyone's names, Rick notices for the first time. He's been spending time in D, or at least no one told the Woodbury refugees to give him space the way someone clearly did for Rick. That line of thought is almost enough, but not quite, to distract him from the much more disconcerting thought of Daryl fucking him.

So maybe he wasn't just playing along. He lets himself think about it for a little too long as Daryl kisses his neck, his hand finally sliding off his ass and slipping under his shirt instead. His teeth graze him, just the gentle suggestion of a bite, and Rick's eyes close of their own accord. Disconcerting might not be the right word, either. Intriguing?

Fuck, who is he kidding? If Daryl said the word, Rick would take him right back to that guard tower and let him do whatever the hell he wants. "Stop it," he finally manages, feeling like he's moving through molasses as he pulls Daryl's arm away and takes a step back. He's sixteen again, apparently, unable to stop himself from thinking about sex or making out in the open with – he checks – two walkers staring at them from the front gates.

Daryl's clearly happy with the effect he's having. "Fine. See you tonight." He gives Rick a friendly pat on the stomach and heads off to the upper courtyard where all of the cars are parked. Rick looks down at the bundled eggs he's still clutching to his chest. It's a wonder they didn't break any.

***

"Dad?"

Rick opens his eyes and peers through the darkness of his cell. The moon's full and throwing just enough light for him to make out Carl's silhouette behind his curtain. "Yeah?"

"Are they back?"

"Not yet." He tries to think of something else to say, because maybe talking to Carl would distract him from the worry that's been gnawing at him for hours. Carl leaves before he can come up with anything. He probably wouldn't have been interested, anyway.

Rick rolls onto his side. His alarm clock reads 1:04. They might've run out of gas or gotten into trouble. Surrounded by walkers, or worse. They've gotten too comfortable, lately, and don't always tell people exactly where they're going. He'll still go out and look for them. Maybe give them a couple more hours, then wake Carol, take his gun, and go.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He's making mental lists, deciding what to bring and which car to take, when quiet footsteps approach. They stop at the cell next to his – Carl's – and he hears indistinct whispers. Daryl and Michonne. He holds his breath and strains to make out the words, but instead hears the sound of Michonne's boots on the metal stairs, and then Daryl slips into his cell.

"Hey."

"You okay?" Rick asks, squinting at him. He's in one piece, at least, and not missing any limbs.

"Uh huh. Fuckin' exhausted." There's the rustle of clothing being removed, then Daryl climbs into his bed, pushing Rick onto his back to drape himself over him. "Picked up a ton of shit but we got separated," he says as he tucks his head under Rick's. "And then we had too many walkers on our ass to come back the short way." He heaves a deep sigh and presses his face into Rick's throat. "What a fuckin' day."

Rick tries to throw the blanket over them both and is mostly unsuccessful, unable to move off it on the cramped bed. He wraps his arms around Daryl, instead, and rubs his shoulder slowly. He smells like walkers and cigarette smoke. "Go to sleep," he says, but he knows it'll be a while. The adrenaline always takes some time to come down after a run, never mind one that went badly.

Two thick scars form an X on the back of Daryl's shoulder. Rick follows the bumpy lines with his fingertips and Daryl sighs again, shifting against him. He smooths his hand down Daryl's back in search of a safer spot, and doesn't find one until his palm reaches the curve of his ass.

"Not gonna happen tonight," Daryl mutters. "Feel like I ran a goddamn marathon."

"Shhh. Go to sleep." He strokes his thumb over Daryl's skin and runs into another scar, thinner but unmistakable. Daryl relaxes against him slowly, letting him touch. He seems to have less of an issue with it in the dark. The scars there run in horizontal lines, clearly old marks from a belt or a switch.

Who the hell spanks their kid and leaves scars? Rick slides his hand back up, trying to keep his breaths slow and steady despite the burst of anger in his chest. He's not supposed to want to kill people anymore, but he's not sure he could stay his hand with Daryl's father in front of him.

For the first time in years, he thinks of the Allens and their numerous domestic dispute calls, of the quiet little girl who always tried to cover for her parents when Rick had to check on them. On one particular evening she'd been shaking with fear when she answered the door, and her father had stood behind her with his knuckles bloody from beating his wife. Rick had clamped down on the urge, hadn't let his fingers wander over to his holster. He'd been a better man, then, with no desert places to scare himself with.

"You can ask, y'know. 'Bout the scars," Daryl says quietly, flattening his palm over Rick's hammering heart. "Instead of gettin' all worked up about 'em."

"You don't have to tell me," Rick replies, but can't stop himself. "Was it just your father?"

Daryl blows an impatient breath against his neck. "Merle never– Merle protected me, okay? Used to mouth off at him when he got drunk so he'd get the worst of it."

"I meant your mother," Rick lies. He keeps his voice low and strokes the small of Daryl's back in slow back-and-forth movements, unsure which one of them he's trying to keep calm.

"Oh. I was pretty young when she died, but... she smacked me around sometimes, I guess. Not like he did." The laugh he lets out sounds hollow. "First thing I ever shoplifted was bandages from the drugstore so I'd stop bleedin' through my clothes. Didn't wanna stay home from school anymore."

Rick grinds his teeth so hard his jaw hurts. He keeps his hand moving mechanically, up and down along the line of Daryl's spine, and hopes his father was still alive when the walkers took over. He hopes they started with his feet and ate their way up as slowly as fucking possible.

"Hey. Deep breath." Daryl rubs his chest lightly through his shirt. "'M okay."

Anyone with eyes in their head could see that Daryl _isn't_ okay, but Rick lets it slide, because if he doesn't, neither of them will ever get to sleep. He wraps both arms around Daryl and gives him a light squeeze.

"Figured you'd be at the campfire or with the horses or somethin'," Daryl mumbles into his neck a few minutes later. "We checked there first."

Rick thinks back on the evening and realizes, with some surprise, that going outside hadn't even occurred to him. He'd spent most of his time with Judith and helped Carol finish that landscape puzzle. "Stayed in with Jude."

"Good. Coulda used an extra pair of hands, though."

"Mm."

"Carl wanted to go," Daryl continues.

"Yeah, bet he did," he replies. Carl's probably wanted to go on every single run that's happened since Rick took his gun away. Something occurs to him, and he frowns up at the ceiling. "You ever taken him without telling me?"

"No. But he'd be more useful out there. Just think about it."

Rick sighs. "I am." He should be, anyway. "... Did he say anything? About... anything. He's not talking to me."

"He's talkin' to me," Daryl replies, then pauses for a moment. "He misses Lori. Said you didn't love her. And he thinks you're gonna treat me like shit too."

So Carl's looking out for Daryl rather than him. He probably deserves it. "I'm not."

It's Daryl's turn to hum vaguely in reply. Rick can't tell whether he's dubious or just getting sleepy. "I'm not," he repeats for good measure, raking the fingers of one hand through Daryl's hair.

Daryl raises his head, but rather than replying, he pulls at the front of Rick's shirt until one of the snap buttons gives. "What's with the clothes?" he mutters, tugging again. As if he himself hadn't been in the habit, until very recently, of sleeping with all of his clothes on.

Rick tries to roll Daryl over and rolls him into the wall instead. After a bit of maneuvering, he manages to reverse their positions and pulls off his shirt, dropping it to the floor. His pants and underwear follow, with Daryl's impatient help, and then they're skin to skin, intertwined on the small bed. Rick pulls his blanket over them and rests his head on Daryl's chest. He gives up on conversation, listening instead to Daryl's heartbeat, and, for once, feels him relax into sleep before he does.

***

The darkness of his cell has only lightened to a dim gray when he wakes up, rested but uncomfortably hot, with Daryl still sound asleep under him. He works a hand slowly from under the blanket that covers them both and pushes it down to their waists, but it does little to help with the way their skin is sticking together.

Still, he lies there for a few moments, familiarizing himself with the slow rhythm of Daryl's sleeping breaths. Today's Sunday. He hasn't been paying much attention, but he knows that means no school for the kids, at least, and very few chores for anyone else. That won't stop Daryl from going hunting or scouting, though, once he wakes up. Probably soon.

Rick raises himself onto one elbow and watches him, his relaxed mouth and the faint, mostly-healed cuts and scrapes on his face. After months of seeing him curling up in corners with his bag under his head, always at a distance from the group, being trusted this completely feels almost more intimate than sex. Carl's idea that Rick's going to treat him like shit is laughable – he couldn't.

The thought of his son stirs him out of his lethargy. They need to talk again. Tensions aren't quite as high, now, and there's a chance Rick might get through to him. He's got some questions to ask, too, if he's going to give him back his gun. And it's becoming increasingly clear that he should. Sunday's as good a day as any to try again, he supposes. Carl won't have any math homework or chores to use as excuses to avoid him.

Daryl's eyes are moving under his eyelids, his breaths coming faster. Rick stays long enough to make sure the dream isn't a nightmare, then slowly lifts himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. Daryl rolls toward him, brow furrowed, but relaxes again after a minute or two, one hand dangling off the bed. Rick pulls the blanket back up to cover the scars, then stands and gets dressed.

He picks up the little key from his desk and pockets it without giving himself time to think about it. The tied-up bandanna from the previous day catches his eye, and he pulls back a corner of it to look at the eggs inside. Not a half-bad peace offering, he thinks, and gathers up the bundle. It _is_ Sunday, after all.

***

The batter looks both lumpy and runny as it drips from the spoon to the bowl, and Rick's gaining sympathy for Lori by the minute. He had to eyeball the quantities, adding powdered milk, flour, water, and eggs to the mix from vague memories of watching her cook. He's not even sure they'll be any good without baking powder, but that's the one ingredient no one's bothered to bring back from their supply runs.

The sizzling batter seems loud in the silence of the early morning. Rick watches over the pan, spatula in hand, and checks the underside of the pancake after a minute. It looks... like a pancake. He flips it over and steps away from the oven to grab plates and utensils from the shelf.

Once the table's set and the first pancake's done, it's just a matter of going through all of the batter. The repetitive movements lull him into losing track of time – before he knows it, the bowl's empty and he's got a steaming stack of pancakes in front of him. It's a lot more than he meant to make due to the numerous adjustments the batter received along the way, but he's sure the first few people out of bed will take care of the leftovers.

He places the pancakes on the table and walks over to the cells. Sunlight filters in through the barred window and falls onto Carl's face when Rick pulls back his curtain. He looks a lot more peaceful when he sleeps than he does awake. It doesn't last, though – he screws up his face against the sunlight, then opens his eyes, blinking up at him groggily.

"C'mon, get up. I made breakfast."

Rick lets the curtain fall and hears Carl groan with heartfelt pain behind it. Maybe it's too early. He knows the promise of food will be enough to get him out of bed, though.

He's already sitting down by the time Carl stumbles in, hair sticking up and eyes pretty much still closed. The sight of the pancakes on the table seems to wake him up, but he takes only a few steps into the room before stopping again.

Rick starts plating up the pancakes. When he puts down the second plate and looks up again, Carl's still frozen there, watching him warily. Rick's about to tell him to sit down when he sighs and walks away.

Rick listens to his footsteps and looks down at the pancakes, trying to decide whether he feels like eating a couple of them alone. Carl's still too angry, maybe. Maybe Rick just had no right to take over a family tradition Lori started. He pours some syrup over the pancakes on his plate, picks up his fork, then puts it down, unable to work up the appetite.

Footsteps echo again, two sets this time, and Carl walks back in with Daryl in tow. He grabs an extra plate, knife, and fork from the shelf and avoids eye contact as he sets them down. Daryl, clearly unaware of how significant the gesture is, looks about as awake as Carl did a few moments ago. "Smells good in here," he mutters, scratching his head.

Carl glances at Rick sideways before sitting down. He still doesn't look too cheerful, but Rick can't stop himself from reaching over to ruffle his already-messy hair. Daryl sits down heavily, yawns, and pulls a pancake onto his plate with his fingers.

Carl's already got his mouth full. "How bad are they?" Rick asks, and that finally gets a smile out of him.

"Pretty bad." He spears more onto his fork and eats with obvious appetite. Daryl glances at them but doesn't say anything, apparently aware he's missing some private joke. Rick tries the pancakes. They taste a bit floury – Lori's legacy lives on.

They eat in silence for a few moments, then Daryl's foot nudges his under the table. "What time didja wake up? Fed the bacon already?"

"'Bout an hour ago. Haven't been out yet."

"I'll do it," Carl says, serving himself another pancake. He looks over at Daryl's plate and tosses him one, too. "What are you doing today?"

"Goin' out with Michonne again. We'll be back before dark."

"Can I come?"

"That ain't up to me," Daryl says, and then Rick's got two pairs of eyes on him.

He eats a piece of his pancakes to give himself some time to think it through again. He's not going to send his son out on a run unarmed. Daryl's already gotten enough bruises and scrapes from protecting Rick in the woods, for one, and Carl will be more useful if he can cover him and Michonne.

It's obvious, too, that Carl will never happy with staying inside and farming with him. He's only meeting him halfway by taking care of the animals... and just met him halfway when it comes to Daryl, too, if his presence at the table is any indication. So why can't Rick?

"Yeah, fine." He has to wrench the words from himself. His mind conjures up the boy walker from a few days ago. Carl killing a man in cold blood. He cuts into what's left of his last pancake with more force than he meant to, and his knife scrapes against the plate.

Daryl's hand lands on his knee. "I'll keep an eye on him," he says quietly, and Carl's head snaps up, his eyes full of teenaged I-can-take-care-of-myself outrage. Something makes the expression melt away, though, giving way to a small smirk as he focuses his attention back to his breakfast.

Rick looks at Daryl, who stares back impassively. He must have winked at Carl or something. Rick shakes his head to himself and mops up the syrup on his plate with the last piece of his pancake.

"I'mma walk the fence before we leave. Meet you in half an hour?" Daryl asks Carl, who nods in reply. Daryl stands up, eyes the remaining stack of pancakes, then pours syrup over the top one and rolls it up.

Predictably, the pancake drips all over the table when he picks it up. Rick snorts and opens his mouth to tell Daryl off, but gets a sticky kiss planted on the corner of his lips before he can say anything. "See you tonight," Daryl says. Rick catches him by the arm and kisses him properly.

"Be careful," he murmurs as he draws back. Daryl waves his free hand dismissively, then somehow crams the entirety of the dripping pancake into his mouth as he walks away.

"Gross," Carl mutters into his plate. Rick isn't sure whether he's referring to the kiss or to Daryl's table manners (fair enough, either way), but his voice is just loud enough for Daryl to hear; his middle finger shines with syrup as he brandishes it over his shoulder. Carl chucks his fork harmlessly at Daryl's back in retaliation, grinning. It clatters to the floor, the door to C opens and closes, and silence falls over the room again.

Carl's grin isn't long-lived. He runs his finger through a small pool of syrup on the table, his expression pensive, then looks up at him. "So I can have my gun back, right?"

Rick takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He reaches into his pocket, retrieves the small key, and sets it down on the table. It opens the toolbox in which he's stashed both their guns. "How many walkers have you killed?"

Carl focuses on the syrup again. He's tracing a star or something, shaping the edges of the pool into points with his fingernail. "... A lot. I don't know. Why?"

"How many people have you killed?"

His finger stills when realization hits. "You're not the leader anymore," he says, frowning up at him. He doesn't want to talk about it. Rick can't blame him, but he needs to ask.

"I'm still your father. How many people have you killed?"

He sighs. "Two."

"Why?"

"You _know_ why," Carl replies, and he's frowning again, anger flaring up in his eyes. He can't hold Rick's gaze, though, and looks away yet again, blinking rapidly.

"You know who I'm asking about."

"I was just–" He chews on his lip and taps his fingertip on the table a few times. "I didn't trust him. And I thought– I wanted to be like you."

Hearing him lie about it had hurt back then, but hearing this hurts more. It's one more proof that he went too far with the Governor, that people died for no good reason under his leadership.

"I get it, you know," Carl continues. "I shouldn't have shot him. His aunt is in D, and–" He takes a shaky breath. "I get it."

"Shoot if you have to," Rick says before sliding the key over to him. "You have to protect yourself. And Daryl."

Carl nods, serious. "I will."

"Pick up that fork before you go."

The way Carl rolls his eyes at him before standing, sticky finger in his mouth, feels reassuringly normal. He's still angry at Rick, and he will be for a while, but he's talking to him. And he's not the same kid he was when the refugees first moved in.

Carl sets the fork down on the table, snatches up the key, and heads off to his cell. Rick's about to get up and gather up the dirty dishes when Glenn trudges in, rumpled and bleary-eyed. "... Pancakes? Are those pancakes?"

"Yep."

Glenn sticks his head back out of the doorway, and his holler of "PANCAKES!" echoes through the entire block. Maggie's the first to come, blanket wrapped around herself, followed by Michonne, who seems perfectly awake (of course she does) and doesn't have a single dreadlock out of place.

Rick stands up and lets them take over the table. " _You_ made pancakes?" Michonne asks, a fresh stack of plates in her hands.

"Sure did," he replies, and her raised eyebrow speaks volumes.

"Doesn't Daryl like sweets?" Glenn says in a low voice. Rick leaves them to their knowing smirks and sits on the metal steps to the catwalk.

Carl jogs back in a minute later and heads straight out the front door, his backpack slung over his shoulder and his knife at his hip. He's got the sheriff's hat back on, too, for the first time in weeks, and suddenly the room seems that much brighter. It's almost starting to feel like home in here – rock-hard mattresses, concrete walls and all. The smell of pancakes helps, as does the warm weight of them in Rick's stomach.

He tilts his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, content for once to sit and listen to the quiet conversation and the tinkling of plates and forks that fill the sun-lit room. He can't hear the rattling chain-link fences, can't smell the rot and the soil, and, for once, doesn't miss them at all.

  
_Not only sands and gravels_  
_Were once more on their travels,_  
_But gulping muddy gallons_  
_Great boulders off their balance_  
_Bumped heads together dully_  
_And started down the gully._  
_Whole capes caked off in slices._  
_I felt my standpoint shaken_  
_In the universal crisis._  
_But with one step backward taken_  
_I saved myself from going._  
_A world torn loose went by me._  
_Then the rain stopped and the blowing,_  
_And the sun came out to dry me._  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that you've read through this whole thing, I feel like I owe some kind of explanation for the weird poetry angle. I stumbled into Robert Frost's poems right after I finished marathoning seasons 3 & 4 of The Walking Dead. The sad melancholy of his work and the constant focus on nature immediately reminded me of prison-era, determined-to-be-a-farmer Rick. So... yeah, I just went with it.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the ride. Thanks for reading! (And double thanks to those who commented along the way. :))

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hesitate to point out typos/mistakes. :)


End file.
